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This is not a poetic language,
but it is to me in my own poetic mind.
At night I write upon blank pages
soon marked up with all my thoughts
the ink is full, but soon that pen will be empty.

Oh, how each lines changes,
each emotion get deeper,
more tears fall like raindrops,
each word that flows from my brain.
I write all my pains in bloodstained ink.

Soon I look for the whiteout if it gets too deep
for the patterns of eyes who reads
who loves to judge me.
This is not poetic language
yet, maybe it is!

Some looks at it as something insane
Oh, how they love to cast blame and shame,
at night I look deep into the midnight sky
that's when I start to sigh
this isn’t a mental illness
But this is just being human.

A poetess, a writer, A woman, Mother, Grandmother, and a friend.
Just face it I’m all of these things
and I will never be ashamed
so go on and cast your stones
go lie in your own blood stand bed
because I am doing just fine being me.

Go doing your shaming blame and your judging
But know this you are not God!
What knowledge will soon be dust to all
when one's spirit dies the body sleeps
Oh, how fragile we all are.

This is the self and the universe
a place I truly love to be
a place I never want to whiteout
but when it comes to my imagination
I let a new world come over me
where litter elements and configurations of the spiral lines
that keeps me on my feet.

Oh, how I may not be poetic language
But then again it may be.

Poetic Judy Emery © 1986
Copyright © Judy Emery| Year Posted 1986
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