Thursday, June 11, 2009
Where is the inspiration that bubbles up
from the depths of my unconscious cup
the lost love and lonely musings,
the long roads and nightly cruising?
Where are the words that jab like a knife
that cut and whack and carve out my life?
Are they wrapped in cellophane sitting on ice
or lying on a table waiting to be sliced?
Do they wiggle like Jell-O, are they frozen and cold
pleasant dreams, nightmares whose actions unfold?
Like a scalpel the poetry pierces my skin
to open my wounds to explore what’s within.
I can’t stand by and watch this murderous act
To expose my vision completely intact
To reveal my emotions so vulnerable and raw
To open my heart before it can thaw
I’ll stop and lock it away in my chest
Hold it forever I think it is best
At this time it is not necessary to bleed
I’ll keep my secrets. I don’t have the need.
I’ll hide in the alley or way under my covers,
find a good friend or maybe become lovers,
I’ll write a to-do-list, keep myself busy,
I won’t write poetry it makes me too crazy.