A lonely child,
child of neglect
I see you.
Night it befalls,
lonely child met..
You meet me.
Peeled round waist from belly to back,
four pieces do a belt of babe make;
stitched and branded.
Lonely child of neglect,
I bathe in your warm fat.
Clouds they roll, stream cotton-frayed sky.
Mother's light peeks to say goodbye, to you;
-the lonely child whom had to die?
eah, hah-hah, hah-hah, hah-hah...
for your calle todaye
when it did not come
this cold and
are the games
of love and lyfe
are the snares
we playe the hunter
we are the baite
be it known to alle
we are the prey
knowinge the price
of painfulle lessons learned
forsooke that knowledge
which thru livinge
alle mustte earne
lure you in
mine open hearte
this bryghte and sunnye daye
shoulde not the skye
be fulle of kloudse an' fey ?
'twoulde match my moode...
added link to the pic/poem
You **** Sapiens; us neanderthals
in separate contexts:
Move mountains of meaning with the swipe of an opposable thumb,
Fill your coffers with shiny, expendable treasure.
gather bundles of metaphor to keep warm
hunt ferocious words to survive
I am not testifying my emotion with the poetry, I am
atoning to it.
I write about God like a friend but we
Haven't been speaking.
I confess my sins to
Whoever will play the part.
When I write about how quiet the moon has been,
I am saying I'm sorry.
My lack of honesty is writers-block.
I crave all of the hurt. I
Torture myself into unhappiness.
I have this habit of starting things I don't
Finish and they're usually letters
Bursting with nameless blame.
I shut down in the middle of
My emotions because they are too loud, I substitute
all of my connections for a painless quiet.
I am cold because it is easier than being warm,
Than getting burned, than being honest. I am cold
because it is easier than saying that
I am selfish in love. I drain, consume
devour everything that touches me and I
Don't know how to stop taking.
When I write about how I am scared that
Love and violence sound the same from an empty bed, I am saying I'm sorry.
I am not presenting my pain with the poetry,
I am conceding to it.
I can't take a pen to paper without punishing myself with the ink.
When I write about a fence with vines encasing the wood,
About neglect, about a garden full of overgrown weeds and
A cold house, I am saying
i wrote this for my boyfriend and i hope he understands what i am trying to say.