#rawness
You are what you eat
And you write what you read.
I have never read the greats
Except an occasional poem for class,
And I feel like a heretic for saying that.
I’ve never willingly
Read Shakespeare or E.E. Cummings
But instead:
I read the words of online poets
Consuming their ink—
Or should I say pixels?
I graze their crimson lining as they
Turn themselves inside out to
Let the whole internet see.
I rise with the wave that they weave with their words
And then when it crashes, when it crashes down
I go under as if drowning was velvety soft and I
Let it wash me onto the shore.
You are what you eat and
You write what you read.
Rarely do I read stilted lines and perfect form
So I write like a mess and a surge and a storm.
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 2:48 PM UTC
in this flesh,
at its rawness,
inside these skins
and bones, all that I seek
and ever thirst for,
is peace.
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 1:26 AM UTC
There are
bullet holes
in
my
back
From the night
you left
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
Writer
[noun]
someone who cultivates raw dirt to produce a single flower, blooming from the depths of their soul;
but grows addicted to its presence --beauty amongst darkness.
and in attempt to conceal the muddy reality, develops a garden with lavish, beautiful flowers--
of assorted variety, with unique traits of every flower and indistinguishable as stars in the night sky;
but harsh winter tramples with intricate footsteps, the petals tragically withered and torn as the writer's heart
their watery eyes acknowledging the dirt once more.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC