"outed" poems - Hello Poetry

strike my eyes lovely for S. B. by way of introduction, when you have gone to confession, freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest, no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable, there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs, one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem, a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction so months later you snicker for you have been seriously self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies, trite and yellowed overused, and you read really good poetry and are slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of your own no-winsome word-smithy, no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note, and it’s the only lasting quality is the genuine nature of its intent but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality, a victim of your dissatisfaction let me explain better she messages you while the time difference works in her favor, she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted, she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation, as she cherishes this forgotten one, with words that cannot be ignored the poem** strikes her eyes lovely daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged for this a compliment that any poet would weep for, be inspired by, stung into action, provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better, what writer could want for anything more! who can own this ability accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification to strike down lovely the readers eyes, almost all once, almost excuses me forever for trying and failing so many times you smile but not in the chest where lovely needs to strike you for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then... let the moment gleam, and then disappear, again and again, stored but not restorative 11/21/18 Miami

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Nov 22, 2018

Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC

nat-lipstadt

strike my eyes lovely

strike my eyes lovely for S. B. by way of introduction, when you have gone to confession, freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest, no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable, there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs, one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem, a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction so months later you snicker for you have been seriously self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies, trite and yellowed overused, and you read really good poetry and are slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of your own no-winsome word-smithy, no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note, and it’s the only lasting quality is the genuine nature of its intent but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality, a victim of your dissatisfaction let me explain better she messages you while the time difference works in her favor, she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted, she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation, as she cherishes this forgotten one, with words that cannot be ignored the poem** strikes her eyes lovely daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged for this a compliment that any poet would weep for, be inspired by, stung into action, provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better, what writer could want for anything more! who can own this ability accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification to strike down lovely the readers eyes, almost all once, almost excuses me forever for trying and failing so many times you smile but not in the chest where lovely needs to strike you for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then... let the moment gleam, and then disappear, again and again, stored but not restorative 11/21/18 Miami