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.

Something about the weather echoing my thoughts that makes me believe I belong to winter alone.

The meek raindrops dripping through the notched ceiling is the slow release of all the bottled-up agony and sufferings.

Darling, it is raining in my head as well tonight.

The startling gusts of wind against the windows are my bleeding fingernails pressed against a wooden door with no one to save me on the other side.

The deep, dark murmurs heard on an empty road are the humming voices inside my head that neglect and put down my efforts.

The voices have become amplified.

Those angry, screeching cat cries is my true voice finally finding itself after long seasons of quietness and despair.

Frustration now has a voice.

Umbrellas hold people hostage under their protection just like my pulsatile depression seems to like restraining me to my lousy bed.

What a fierce lover I've got.

This gentle nature-stirred madness has made its way fearlessly right onto my once-blue skies to shamelessly prove to me that I'm never alone.

I have come to realize
on this very first of a stormy winter night,
shivering alone at my stacked desk,
that our relationship is a childish defense mechanism.

We fool around, curse each other out.
We share secrets like no two best friends ever do.
We sing our soulless hearts out to rock bands
with suicidal guitarists, comfortably evading our feelings.

"What a childish defense mechanism!" I hear myself say.
I never once wrote poetry for you
for fear it might elope into something out of control.
I was not ready for that. I am not still.
And I'm yet unsure I ever will be.

But ******, I just had to get it down on paper for once.
And I detest being stuck in this hazy, grayish aura
of it never being truly white, but not really black either.

And my thoughts are mimicking the weather tonight,
cloudy and thunderous, yet utterly breathtaking.
I think I might love you one day just as much as I love winter.