Poems about roads,
poems about ravens,
Poems about monsters,
and poems about roses.
What do they mean? The road is a life,
the raven a regret,
the monster is you
and the rose is-
What.
What happened to this?
Why can't it just be a rose?
A flower with thorns and red petals?
“But the thorns are hardship and-”
No. Don't pretend you understand.
Don't give meaning to the meaningless.
Let the words speak on their own.
Interpret, sure, but don't over-analyze.
Let the words come and flow
unbroken by the lines of a chart,
splitting stanzas and lines into more manageable chunks.
Poetry is an art not meant for a spreadsheet.
Words flow from the heart and the soul,
from the subconscious where meaning is meaningless.
Where poetry remains whole.
I scratch my pen across the page
like a pen scratching across a page,
writing a poem about poetry,
Really.
I write cloud and it means cloud,
I scrawl raven and I mean the bird,
I tap out road, and it refers to the pavement
and when I say rose, I mean rose.
Beauty is not always in complexity,
sometimes it rests in simplicity.
Simplicity of thought and
of interpretation.
When my heart is aching
and I want to cry, how else can that be said?
When I make it an enigma:
crystal drops from earthen orbs
when I say what I want:
I buried my face in my hands
and sobbed.
Both equally beautiful,
both equally poetic
one clearly understood by anyone reading.
Poetry is my art, and I would hate to see it picked apart
like a frog in a biology class.
Each stanza
cut
apart
word by word
and phrase by phrase
to find any hidden meanings therein.
I've hidden nothing.
But don't over-analyze that statement.
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 8:58 AM UTC
Poems about roads,
poems about ravens,
Poems about monsters,
and poems about roses.
What do they mean? The road is a life,
the raven a regret,
the monster is you
and the rose is-
What.
What happened to this?
Why can't it just be a rose?
A flower with thorns and red petals?
“But the thorns are hardship and-”
No. Don't pretend you understand.
Don't give meaning to the meaningless.
Let the words speak on their own.
Interpret, sure, but don't over-analyze.
Let the words come and flow
unbroken by the lines of a chart,
splitting stanzas and lines into more manageable chunks.
Poetry is an art not meant for a spreadsheet.
Words flow from the heart and the soul,
from the subconscious where meaning is meaningless.
Where poetry remains whole.
I scratch my pen across the page
like a pen scratching across a page,
writing a poem about poetry,
Really.
I write cloud and it means cloud,
I scrawl raven and I mean the bird,
I tap out road, and it refers to the pavement
and when I say rose, I mean rose.
Beauty is not always in complexity,
sometimes it rests in simplicity.
Simplicity of thought and
of interpretation.
When my heart is aching
and I want to cry, how else can that be said?
When I make it an enigma:
crystal drops from earthen orbs
when I say what I want:
I buried my face in my hands
and sobbed.
Both equally beautiful,
both equally poetic
one clearly understood by anyone reading.
Poetry is my art, and I would hate to see it picked apart
like a frog in a biology class.
Each stanza
cut
apart
word by word
and phrase by phrase
to find any hidden meanings therein.
I've hidden nothing.
But don't over-analyze that statement.
Written for my school Poetry Slam, meant to be read aloud.