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Dec 2015
Your love is illiterate.

My needs are too far within.
I am primitive
and will never be satisfied.

But how I will cry and pine on the strings of this instrument.

Place your palms on the soft animal of my body.
Find me.

I am unaccounted for.

I become frantic in my silence.
My gravity becomes  pinions.
A volute **** in the ether.

Such will you, I.

There is no means to entering the gateless gate, though you will try.

My body is numb, and I am senseless with the roaring waters behind me.

It will not desist.
This endless sea, forgets.
So the blur of organs, the blundering cold of a concept.
I am non-matter. Absence of all things, in me.

Here is a story of ignorance: something.

How I become sick on my self.
My mouth is wooden. Knowing, what can be said?

We lose sense of sense.
Soft, and vulnerable fawn, intractable in the tall grass.

Do not love the uncast word. Forgive.
Chelsea Chavez
Written by
Chelsea Chavez  Fairfield, CA
(Fairfield, CA)   
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