Saturday, November 7, 2009


In the aftermath hurricanes of circumstance

a poet clings to her words.
Divulging skeletons publicly seems absurd,
preferring to abnegate the hurt,
surrendering truths serves only to disconcert
so you whisper
your thoughts
to paper.

The line between craft and life
your heart never distinguished.
Your inherent impulse can not be extinguished.
Rejection of the gift a pursuit in futility,
like a wild animal kept in captivity,
you may cage it, but you can’t tame it.

So inevitably
the truth pours from your lips.
Your mind is the womb, giving birth from your hips
Of experience.

Your lyrical conceptions are born,
narrator and mother,
under the shield of vocabulary
you seek cover.
You hide in the stanzas,
finding refuge in the arms of poetic answers.

Oxygenating your soul,
expressions you can not control
it’s as natural as breathing.
Prose keeps your pulse beating.
Inhaling the future, exhaling the past,
the present martyr of verses so vast,
You’re forced to make a truce.
Because misery may love company,
but you live lonesome

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