they write me:

You know,
when I wrote my 1st poem,
at age 16,
didn't 'Love' it,
just felt it,
had to be said,
was the best way,
to write,
what I was feeling...

Today,
breathe Poetry
like its the only breath I can take,
physically hurt
when
I can't write...

cry, laugh, sigh, gasp
when read others works
but bleed internally
with words
that only make sense
inside a head that's
been bashed
against a wall repeatedly...

funny how emotionally
you can choke upon
a million words that
have no sound,
that can't speak...
It's funny
how you can't say the words
but upon a page they leak,
like a broken pen
in a pocket of a white dress shirt...
funny how the stain hurts...
for it's really not that funny


Reply

Take your message in both hands,
twisting it this way and that,
to the window,
to the spring morn light's clarity,
then to the mirror,
held to my chest,
where it's reversed,
murmuring 'hello old friend,'
this same message
in my files,
written when a
laddy boyo of sixteen

oh how came this message
back to me
so many decades later?

the answer simple,
some stains upon you
are bleach and time resistant,
for who you are,
decades later,
never changes,
and for
some stains,
I am grateful
that this is their,
and our nature too...