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broookePoems
pinky promise we've forgotten our mortality our impulse to smile at blooms we've stared at childhood photographs and wondered why we look so angry the art of fault and denial are synonymous we've stopped speaking in hopes that silence really does speak volumes, our bodies could fell, cracked down like oak and our voices remain like cocoons, papery whispers swathed in duff, still breathlessly prating, foolish and juvenile. which goes to say-- our thoughts far procede the vessel, would last beyond our deaths and ancestry-- i once spoke about anger being passed down through the blood of irishmen - who long held the propensity to bar fight and brawl long standing feuds poured from mouth to mouth downriver, across the gap, occasionally skipping a generation the woes of our fathers are dead languages that we keep-- tongues we deliver on our own we lash out and are our mothers or laugh and see our fathers never quite our own until burgeoning, and not even that -- not all of us bloom, some of us violently tear away break the root and toss ourselves among the rocks wilted but brilliantly colored          desperate to                    learn how to speak.
0
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC
5/30 (dead languages or learning how to speak)
pinky promise we've forgotten our mortality our impulse to smile at blooms we've stared at childhood photographs and wondered why we look so angry the art of fault and denial are synonymous we've stopped speaking in hopes that silence really does speak volumes, our bodies could fell, cracked down like oak and our voices remain like cocoons, papery whispers swathed in duff, still breathlessly prating, foolish and juvenile. which goes to say-- our thoughts far procede the vessel, would last beyond our deaths and ancestry-- i once spoke about anger being passed down through the blood of irishmen - who long held the propensity to bar fight and brawl long standing feuds poured from mouth to mouth downriver, across the gap, occasionally skipping a generation the woes of our fathers are dead languages that we keep-- tongues we deliver on our own we lash out and are our mothers or laugh and see our fathers never quite our own until burgeoning, and not even that -- not all of us bloom, some of us violently tear away break the root and toss ourselves among the rocks wilted but brilliantly colored          desperate to                    learn how to speak.
kiss your thumb. (c) Brooke Otto 2017
broooke
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broooke
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 PM UTC
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