My poetry Tears at Me
I’m sorry my words don’t speak in romantic filled embraces.
My language is built from elementary understanding of feelings.
I attempt to translate my true thoughts into a message to convey.
Above all my words are meant for my own wounds’ self healings.
My page opens with clear intent for a jovial sharing.
By the second word typed the mindlessness takes control.
It’s not that things don’t make me laugh or I find comical.
But in my world the only thing full of ideas is the crazy bowl.
Left to my own creative and undirected devices I stray.
What comes out of my fingertips are words that I never would share.
I wonder sometimes what the powers that be would do with them.
But I push the letters in their neat little rows and print them as if I didn’t care.
Therapy of the mind and heart is what some people call poetry.
For me it’s the feeling of razor blades over delicate skin tearing at me.
I lay here exposed and bleeding as the words and thoughts force their way free.
But whatever people may say of this they know I must be what I am to be.
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