My poetry Tears at Me

by: Ronovan

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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