"wik" poems
Poetry appears as thin threads of smoke
off the tip of a candle's burnt wik, as
hot wax sticks to the hairs on
the back of my hand while the blood
of my pen is drawn across the page and
my irritation is hidden
behind a screen of fog; rain pounds,
trying to break down these walls
and today,
I grab a lock of hair and pull
but I don't wince,
my mind has dissolved into absence for
a moment and though I smile,
the smoke in my eyes
makes it impossible to hear.
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
some days i don't feel like waking up. but i can hear you tell me to try a little harder. stop standing in my own way. it'll be better today.
it's been so touch-and-go, i don't even know what it's about anymore. so many words. not nearly as many meanings. pretending like i've ever learned anything.
just a time and a place and a name. a wooden frame and a photograph.
the candles have all burned out but the memory remains.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 11:13 PM UTC