you feel a storm
you move fast
you etch his name above your navel with hungry fingers
- the art of infatuation
- check out my personal blog at meysathepoet.com, I will be posting regularly on there
wars waged against others
wars waged against the world
not of the self.
Like flirting with a cigarette, studying it
teasing it between these slender fingers.
Turning it this way
and putting it out after one
You know, before the cancer seeps in
I am a writer and I've always known it.
Even when my feeble self-esteem conspired against my urge to pick up a pen.
I carried it around
like you carry relics
Remained tethered to them.
I write now.
Perhaps because I am not a talker.
my mother's trust issues are leaking into my chest
my father's tendency to forfeit humans for his solidarity
I feel my persona bending to accommodate them
- identity is an oh-so fragile topic
you keep rubbing your thumb over the same old wound
and you wonder why it stings?
I think that
as a writer
my writing is my biggest strength
yet my biggest weakness
because if you lose yourself in these flurry of words
you will come to love me
but if you see past them
you will come to know me.
- I pour a little bit of myself into every poem that I write.