Sometimes words are weapons
Add an s or a certain order and
They will cut to the bone,
Eviscerate a bowel,
Destroy a dream,
End a life,
Break a lovelorn heart
Other times sans s fronted
They caress a weary cheek,
Lift up a tired soul
And reassure a faltered
Dream that its time
Too will come to
Faultless fruition
We speak thousands of words
Every day of our lives
Without thought,
And spoken they come
With added edges and jagged spurs
Of intonation, tone,
Expression
Or with balm for healing,
Warmth for the cold
Respite for the bewildered
Mind and soul
Lifting up repairing all
And making good
On harm
But beware the poem
Most of all! for it
Is a fearsome trap
For the unready author
Who writhes upon the created flow
Struck from their own verse
Read well by another,
For poems tell our truth
Warts and all,
And like singing lay us bare
To critic judge and common herd,
Who hear, absorb
And find us whole and
Nowhere left to hide,
We are forced to face
Reaction,
Reaction to our souls and hearts
Captured upon a pen's point,
Pinned to a board or a page
And read aloud
Where all can see
And what do you hear?
What do you see?
My God you see
The real and naked,,
The one and only,
Me.....
Reflecting a shared moment (which lasted an age) with another poet here when I sent more than I realised and they heard their own read with passion and truth.
Not so much bruising as a unique exposure to someone who knows me and I them, rather better than we either may have intended. I wonder if this resonates with anyone else here?
