Sometimes my poetry
seems so base
it's a wonder I put it out there
like air
flecked with allergens
to sicken those who breathe it.
It's not the elevated voice
I thought "poets" used
(who keep me writing)--
but it's dirt, debris,
the wreckage of
weak living--
mess-ups, mishaps--
instead.
It's words out-of-place
stuck here--
together--
where they grope--
grasp--
at making sense
and making amends
for me
but are honest enough
to admit they're just
a scuff on the floor.
dedicated to M
Thanks, chica.
2 comments:
My newsreader downloaded your "the object of the work" post before you removed it, so I'm not sure if I was "supposed" to see that or not. I did.
Thank you. It's a side that I, as a single, don't get to hear very often. The side of reality is a side most people don't like to share. Thanks for at least thinking about sharing it. :-)
Thank YOU, beautiful.
Chica. Everybody say, "Woohoo!" And I'm getting ansty for that little boy! ;-)
Post a Comment