words, dying to come out will not be kept at bay.
shared with you they hold water like salt,
kept from you they hold water like cracked dams
killing the dense population of my mind.
core burns hard within
singes paper mind
healing happens outside me
stumbles alone quietly
through the night dream air
i own reality
among brilliant cats drinking
everglades from gators
harp indigenous jowls kept.
labor mars naivete
offers prayers quick
resolves sore time, used venom
willful xenons yearning zeal.
the great thing about poetry is that it means something different to everyone. we see the words on the page, the screen differently. we share the experiences in our mind with what we see in front of us and we say, oh that makes sense, or i don't get it, or i just can't think about this right now. we hide under the covers, we blow them off, we creep tentatively into the daylight, wondering how we'll be affected, afflicted, inflicted, infected, reflected, rejected. we make up words, signs, wisdom in our heads so when something goes wrong we say, see i told you so, even if just to our inner child who tried to dream one last time.
and in the end, you're still the same you, and i'm still the same me, and time moves on as ever it does, as ever it will.
we will survive. it's all we know how to do.
It’s the questions that are important, not the answers - The scary thing. A situation we don’t want to be in but we know is inevitable. We procrastinate because we just know it’s going to be awful. No way getting...
1 year ago