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 Sep 2020 Kerli Tulva
MicMag
sometimes you just
gotta sit down and write
just grab the apple
and take a bite
just take a leap
into the dark night

if you want to be a poet
you gotta write poems
let the words go
wherever the wind blows em

sometimes your lines will ****
other times blow you away
but stay firm on that writing path
don't be led astray
by laziness and perfectionism
saying you can't do it
don't give in, knock em down
push yourself right through it

let the poem be what it is
let its rhymes ring true
knowing as much
as you're writing the poem
it's also writing you
success comes
through failure
improvement comes
through the grind
go ahead
write bad poems
they'll make you better
in due time
A friend of mine told me
I write when I’m sad
She said it is as if I am in pain
And I said when I write it rains
When I put the pen on paper the clouds get dark
And when I stop
The birds of the sky sings
Coming out to play as the sun is out
I am easier to be had
In the silence of darkness
Where teardrops are equal to dust
If you can't see them fall
I am lovelier on Wednesdays
Wearing long dresses and heels
Ask me if you can touch
I will, without thinking, say yes
I am lonelier in crowds
Feeling overwhelmingly not there
Nothing more than the people
Whom have passed through me
Memories shapeshifting into a girl
I am nothing more
Than a ghost town
You are liquid fire
Come, sit down
let me have a sip
I do am parched
Come, lay down
next to me
Let me explore
your body made of matches
I am made of pure
burning
golden desire
Come, take me down
We do burn so beautifully
after 2 am
in the morning light
There is art
In your heart
Painting pictures
When I lay
My head down on your chest

There are songs in your eyes
Singing lullabies
When you hover
Pin me down
With your stare

There is a poem
On the tip
Of your tongue
I taste it
When I kiss you

You are tortured
Stereotyped
My jaded lover
I hear it
When you won't talk
*      ·   
   ✦                      . ˚   
                                                          ✦      · .
  ·     . .   *    *  . * .         ·
·           ·✷ *              +     ·   ⊹  . ˚  ˚    ˚     * . who will mourn the world ˚
+   ·  when there is nothing left?+                ˚
+   ·        *   ✺ ˚ ⊹           ✵      ˚ +    . .          ˚    ✷ ·  .   .       · *      ⊹   . ⋆ ˚
*       *      ·   
   ✦                      . ˚
·           ·✷ *                  +     · ✵           ✫    * .      * .  .
I felt like space
 ✦  
so so alone
Back in my teenage college years
I was told about “Autistic kids”
Who lived in worlds of their own,
Seeing things through weird and wonderful specs
In social isolation,
Frightening in its completeness.

At sixty six I since have learned about many
Of their “traits”:
Their obsessions, inflexible routines and
Panic
At all change.
Their inability to read
Emotions or social cues
Or innuendos
Or irony.

I have worked with those with Aspergers,
Colleagues, friends and clients –
Indeed with people all over
The Autistic Spectrum.

And the main thing I have learned
In all these years
Is that in my own way…
I am one of them.

Paul Butters

© PB 1\10\2018.
There, I'm Out.
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