The best writing is that which Is raw, the kind of raw that oozes out of cupcakes, And the kind of raw that is bright bubble gum pink on meat. The kind of writing that the poet doesn’t Think all the way through with their mind, But has been thinking about for months In their heart and just couldn’t find the Words to say it. Because poems that are raw aren’t just ugly; They’re beautiful.
In the cold, dark of January, I remembered you the most. As the chill snapped bones like branches, as the afternoons bathed themselves in gray, as the birds and the backs shook, so did my lips around your name. I'm so happy January is almost over now.
It's the time to listen to our own heartbeat To talk to our inner self. It's the introspective moment that we need, To survive in this modern over-noisy World.
Silence has a sound which can't be heard from the ears, But only by the heart