Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Writer's Electrocution/Poetry

Writer’s Electrocution

Suppression underneath malice and a dead overhang-
How might I pick from
The jolly?

How might I find the ways,
To vent all of the electric,
The faint electrocution?

While barely existing-
Hanging by a thread,
Attached in slight to that overhang,
By a thread, a shred . . .
Attached very slightly,
With what we call hope.

I scream to the desert-
Around me,
For in my soul,
I know that these are dark ages.

But I can’t help, feeling completely riveted,
By my breathing.

The desert turns to ice glaciers,
And then to snowy wilderness,
And still, throughout this epic,
Climatic changing I breathe,
As a girl in a storybook,
Who undergoes the fancies of the pen,
Who lives through anything,

I can hear,
My breathing.

The pages of this notebook turn swiftly,
As with blood I write myself,
Through the good and black,
Through leaves of autumn, gold,
Landing crackles, of them underfoot as-
We- walk.

With the freshness of a,
Pumping heart I,
Let the blood flow,
For rite of my life.
And in my soul,
I write off those days.

Where can there be glad, jolly?

I hang here and scream-
With no ear here,
In winters barren,

There will be a downfall,
And ‘eeeeeeek!’

If spring is not written,
The thread I’ll-

No . . .


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