This terse verse was not
coerced or rehearsed,
the characters dispersed,
automatically, erratically,
forming statically cohering
patterns emphatically stating
my state of mind unwinding,
binding to the page,
for my pen is but a player and
this paper is its stage.
So now these thoughts have autonomy
despite their bond with me,
they're free to be a part apart from the
constraints of my mind, and now without
restraint they find their way to yours
as you perceive them.
I emit, the pen transmits,
now you receive them.
Adopt the words with
your optic nerves.
But be warned that these forms
Do not appease norms.

The ghosts come back to haunt her,
Their shadows lurking over the ancient escritoire,
Quill in hand, paper a blank canvas,
Wondering if the poets of the past would praise her
Or look on her in scorn,
Will her own words be a wordsmith's dream?
Will she live a travesty and be idolized in death?
She buzzes with unease,
Feeling the fierce grip of inspiration overcome her,
Succumbing her to its essence before it vanishes,
And in her isolation, the words dance,
Sometimes in harmony, sometimes in battle.

Sugar has grown on me,
what once sat untouched in delicate china, is now heaped
spoonful after spoonful,
into my tea

the sticky poison clamping
my tongue to the roof of
my mouth

why?

I guess I stopped feeling 'sweet enough', I felt like I'd lost my audience, who would clammer and chant my name until

nothing

silence piercing my ears with needles, where the **** were the cheers? The applause?

I am a broken bird, fallen from my perch to the dusty floor of my cage. I utter not the slightest moan,

sugar,

I crave.

Boys have their own melody,
sweet and susceptible.
Leave them be,
their songs will be unheard.

Fathers who break their rhythm,
are the most spiteful of men.
They breed to inflict pain,
they sustain the cycle of odium.

Sons who can't play their songs,
only have shattered remains.
They shaped into melancholy,
The men who get the blues