POETRY?!
POETRY?!
When you reach for the pen,
Feeling lifted up from the concrete ground,
You stare at the bare, white paper
But you’re writing alright:
In the twisted lines of your mind,
Soul or brain, plus the heart.
And you miss the very single moments of
Happiness
Standing in lonely chairs and benches
Near rivers vanals and lazy swans
Asking to be written about.
So you did!
Ah! Poetry is nothing more than your
Enzymes working right or wrong.
It’s wetting your feet in forbidden fountains,
Smiling to the vague, empty air,
Glaring at the glittering watery night.
It’s lying in wet-green-dry grass,
Listening to the insects that listen
To your breathing.
Poetry could be what I’m made of
If only that weren’t so ****ing pretentious!
Coimbra April 97
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Poesia :
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Poetry.
Like your well thought out observations.