I care not
for the age I am

Too much sand has past through the hourglass
gram after gram

. . . . . . .

Wishing that I could
turn it around
But time has the chapters of the book
locked-strapped down

. . . . . .

Then after I fell
from the tree and
hard-thumped the ground

I stood up and I looked sheeplessly around

"Egad" ! I said with a reluctant scowl
I care not
for this moment wiping the pain off my brow

. . . . . . . .


Now that the salt has
turned blue steel to rust

It leaves me with thoughts that I find just disgust

. . . . . . .

The temple crowns . . .
snow white in disguise

The truth is affirmed
inside reside all of the lies

. . . . . . .

So many things
I care not for . . .

Seems like the list aquires
daily
more after more

. . . . . . . . .

The burden's great that holds me down

The elementals of time
have shackled me to the roots in the ground

. . . . . . .

Yet I set sail to sea
with one set of sure-sails

knowing there's hurricane force winds
and tempestuous gales

. . . . . . .

Just one more thing I care not for  👇

"I'm just another mouse that wants to hear itself roar"

Someone once asked me,
“What did you do
to become a poetess?”

I said,"nothing.
I only broke the dam of emotions
I had built over the years.

The flood of emotions
themselves turned
into poems
and I became
a poetess."
(I have my doubts)

~
Hear me, and heed my woe,

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
              how thy smileth reaches
                            thy eyen and
                                    crinkles the c'rn'rs
                                                  immensely.
Thy confidence, a flame
          yond burneth with f'rvent might,
   intimidating, yet draweth me in,
                            as moth to candle's lighteth.
Thy passion is contagious,
                 thy excitement a thrill,
    i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
                                    but mem'ries ling'r still

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
          as thee gazeth into mine own eyen
                                        bef're our lips meeteth
    our intimate moments,
                                 a sensual rapture,
           thy corse, a w'rk of art,
                           sculpt'd p'rfectly in all its
                                                   muscular stature

i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
             the way we w're,
                     young with a future,
                                         we couldst not seeth.
      What ifs and maybes,
               a maze, i tryeth to escapeth,
                      longing f'r what couldst've been,
           a heart yond acheth.

Ev'ry fare thee well,
                             a pang in mine own chest,
         feareth of nev'r seeing thee again,
                                      and all yond is repress'd
Thy absence, a weight
              yond i doth striveth to shaketh,
     wond'ring wh're thou art,
                                       what thou dost maketh.
   Art thou joyous, art thou free from careth?
i tryeth to not bethink on Thee …
                     yet some days, 'tis hard to beareth.

In sooth,
    i am not depress'd,
           n'r doth i feeleth the blues, wh'reupon
i f'rce myself to not bethink on Thee …
                            by mineth owneth shall, anon.
~