Jul 2017
I like to paint my eyelids rainbow
to color all I see
Different shades of reds
And blues and greens
I do write with colored tear drops
and so the paper's stains . . .
must oft contain the lies of lovely feelings
I look back and read and wonder
at the garden on display
And I ask if what I wrote about
was just my own artistic creations
washed
Away
to color all I see
Different shades of reds
And blues and greens
I do write with colored tear drops
and so the paper's stains . . .
must oft contain the lies of lovely feelings
I look back and read and wonder
at the garden on display
And I ask if what I wrote about
was just my own artistic creations
washed
Away
Not a nice feeling, looking back on a few pieces of work, and wondering if I constructed my own false perspectives and then wrote about them. It's not that my poems are wrong . . . I'm just mainly choking on a few unnecessarily. I guess I shouldn't judge myself for a poem, I know my concept of reality is clarifying. The poems I wrote helped me when I wrote them, and they are snapshots of a moment in my mind. I'm glad I'm not still in those moments.
