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69
Yesterday I turned 69, not a number to forget
Whatever way you look at it it's going to read the same
So at 69 I'm ****** stuck, can't pretend I'm glad
But it could be so much worse
You see the next number with the curse
is the number
101
I was born on a hot july night but I have always found solace in the rain,
I am a snowflake rather than a hot summer breeze,
which makes me sad.
I feel beautiful over summer, and disgusting during winter,
But there is something creative hidden in the grey skies and thunderstorms,
That I miss greatly as soon as June comes around.
I can not write or paint when I feel beautiful,
I am too busy, dancing, flirting, singing.
I can not be angry when the stranger smiles at me on the bus,
Or when the man tells me I'm the prettiest sight he has seen this year,
I can only write angry poems,
about the raindrops, and lightning and the warmth of a bed, when I feel sad.
I blossom in winter.
And wilt and die as my birthday arrives.
"I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days"
You read my poetry in an attempt to understand me
versus an attempt to read literature
or fiction
or art
So you pick apart each sentence
and each syllable
and each subject
and you try so hard to figure me out
You want to know what I was thinking when I wrote this poem
or that poem
but what that tells me is perhaps you aren't even reading them at all
Although what poets express comes from the debths of our creative closets and emotional state
you must still open up your mind and soak up the words for what they are
Not for who I am
I guess I get weary of people who read my poetry that do not even read poetry and try to take every single thing I say in a literal sense. I'd rather those types of eyes not read my work at all.

(C) Maxwell 2014
DRY
When the words won't come
I feel numb, empty inside
On a slow ride
Wanting to go faster

I sit waiting, for stimulus, motivation
Any sign of animation
in this head of mine
Waiting for the literary spark

My mind drips like a tap, drip, drip
Everything in slo mo
Need the words to grow
Blossom, bloom

Then

It hits me
A seed, a kernel
I feel the infernal rattlings
Of cogs that begin to turn

I feel it, a flutter, a thought
Emerging like a butterfly
Words multiply
I write

The words spill like a waterfall
Soaking my senses, breaking down fences
I am hydrated again
I hate writer's block and this is about my frustration in those moments.
I am so jealous
jealous* of everybody
everybody who's close to you
you who are far away
away from where I am living
living without loving,
loving without hoping,
hoping without knowing
knowing how this will end
end, if there is one.
Each new line begins with last line's last word. That's it.
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