I used to string poetry
like linen on wire
so soft, and yet so damp.
My thoughts were the wind
and I could breeze all I could
through the sheets of paper
in my books.
Baskets of washed words
probably stained by the grass and grime
because I used to dig so deep
just to find the right words.
I used to be so fluent,
so inspired and free
I was wrapped in my linen
the sun was all that really spoke for me.
I used to reach up
and the rest would fall.
This was my poetry
and it fell to my desire.
I'm going to string my linen
and let the words return again.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
I used to string poetry
like linen on wire
so soft, and yet so damp.
My thoughts were the wind
and I could breeze all I could
through the sheets of paper
in my books.
Baskets of washed words
probably stained by the grass and grime
because I used to dig so deep
just to find the right words.
I used to be so fluent,
so inspired and free
I was wrapped in my linen
the sun was all that really spoke for me.
I used to reach up
and the rest would fall.
This was my poetry
and it fell to my desire.
I'm going to string my linen
and let the words return again.
