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Patrick Donawey Mar 2015
my skeleton burns dry
Her fingertips melt
    my harsh layers
to dust
my lover's eyes
   are island seas

changing their colors
   to the wandering of clouds
lit by an inward sun

at times
   a brilliant hard shine
   of greenish gray
   with tints of brown

at other moments
   the sad grey
   of pastel slate

and then
   some times
   a dark green velvet

drawing me in
on endless gentle waves
  Mar 2015 Patrick Donawey
Sam Temple
oh, poetic muse
why must I write such trash sometimes?
what is the purpose of offering wondrous inspiration
and leaving one languishing in the aftermath of writing garbage
suffering the torment of brilliant lines
hidden in drivel
for to laugh is but to cry without the tears
emotional gushing for the sake
of public demonstration
but I digress—
mine is the lot of a genius
misunderstood
and unrecognized
far beyond simple poetry sites
why, dare I put myself among the greats…
I dare.
call me Dr. Suess as I can rhyme nonsensical
call me maya as I can wax political
call me morrison, I write high
call me hughes as I write impoverished and downtrodden
call me a poet –
sitting back and realizing I have gone too far
I wish there was a way to reign myself back for this brink,
But I rarely edit
and never abandon works
even crap like this –
it is
one of the tantalizing
   fascinating traits of life
that in its myriads and myriads
   of shapes and images and truths
   nothing is certain

nothing
   to still our desire
   for knowledge definite

even the certainty of death
   evokes yet more vague expectations

we do not know
where we go
when we leave this world
Patrick Donawey Mar 2015
I am the minute stalk
Gasping my way between
The ragged shadows.

I am the melting landscape,
Entangled in the other with the affection,
Of a merciless dawn.

I am the Human
Drawn by the hand of Her
Own primal society
Patrick Donawey Mar 2015
we can exchange hushed script
we could even breathe through the world
we would not roll our tongues around
         verbal diction
we would not dare slither a
         sound
                for with the noise, rushes frosty
breeze,
                comes little anodynes to numb
out the night

we can blink silence
we would never dream a drop of sound

— The End —