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on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.
.
  
I am
    bound by the
  belief that
     life,

with
  all of its
                           dark tunnels
                following tracks
                    of hurt  
   caused by someone who
    claims to
                       have cared,
    
         shorelines
          of empty promises
                                        vacant of any feeling
                      washing your dreams
into a sewer system
                      of nightmares
  
                 and
      
                     twisted stairways
of all that was shared      
               crumbling beneath
the weight of a
                      broken heart
                          
gets no better
than this,

        and I am
          ecstatic
       by the
          fact
                 that it

                                               eventually ends
I just wish it would hurry the hell up
Thank you to all of my friends here for your kindness and for making this life a little bit more bearable. Sometimes though the pain is just too much.
Love,
What on earth do you want with me?
I have tried everything I can think of,
I said everything I can say,
I got lost a lot,
and somewhere along the way,
I still hoped I'd find you
but you're still too elusive for me.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
I can't figure it out ever!
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