The poet sees the world differently
Usually for what it is
She seams the words that describe that sear
She can also see the world around her crash
Into a ball of tar
Because that's what we all end up usually into
The poet hears the jarring through the crevices
She is aware of my rattled insides
She listens to the hum of my heart
As I hugged her and complimented her writing
She said, "You don't understand me at all,
I am weighed down with this burden."
Being a poet is not a volition
Being a poet is a personal tragedy
This curse has just begun.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment