I put the Matt in matter
because I believe I do
but don't tread on me
or wipe off your shoes.

© Matthew Harlovic

My world is not of the written word
It cannot be numbered
held captive on a so called page

My world is liquid
as sea , rain , snow or ice
It can be hot , cold , or entice

My world is cloudy
It thunders after it flashes light
My world is wrong , my world is right

There are no words that bind my life
I won't be delegated
to exist in the black on white

I will not be staved
by the limited sways
of the written words upon the page

what is it about writers
we put words to emotions
to experience
to life

life others are afraid to acknowledge
maybe

experience others may have had
Or have not had
maybe

emotions others have equally laid with
possibly more
maybe

words are vehicles

writers speak not of the contraption that brings about motion
a writer speaks of the navigator that discerns direction

©Christopher F. Brown 2015

I want to thank you,
For all the years spent
Helping me to discover who I wish to be,
And who I never want to be again

Blinded.
By whom
I can't even fathom.

Do you remember
the colors,
the time
when indigo
and vermillion
and azure
crowded your palette?

How different
your soul feels.

How sweet
How bitter
How wonderfully
capricious
it was.

Blind.
For how long
I can't even fathom.

Was there
ever
a time?

this silence is much needed.