They tell me I know what I'm doing.
I'm a master stumbler.
I record the sounds of my steps
along the cobblestones of thoughts
tracing me through mere minutes of my day.
I'm no predator of words,
hungrily snatching them from their sound slumber.
I've never slain a thought for
the sake of hanging its trophy on my page.
I have no brush at the ready,
no photographic,
impressionistic mind
gathering the sights and sounds
like a gambler collecting her winnings.
I could not, at gunpoint,
fire off the words to save my life,
no eloquent please,
no well turned phrases,
no sycophantic soliloquy.
I am the shell of my experiences,
my hide made only
of the ones that have hardened me.
This is no way to love.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 3:31 PM UTC
They tell me I know what I'm doing.
I'm a master stumbler.
I record the sounds of my steps
along the cobblestones of thoughts
tracing me through mere minutes of my day.
I'm no predator of words,
hungrily snatching them from their sound slumber.
I've never slain a thought for
the sake of hanging its trophy on my page.
I have no brush at the ready,
no photographic,
impressionistic mind
gathering the sights and sounds
like a gambler collecting her winnings.
I could not, at gunpoint,
fire off the words to save my life,
no eloquent please,
no well turned phrases,
no sycophantic soliloquy.
I am the shell of my experiences,
my hide made only
of the ones that have hardened me.
This is no way to love.
And what is poetry if not love?
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