My Eyes Fill With Red

Pain and catharsis. A vent for my feelings in a flash gone by, timely moment. An instant, captured, but for good I cannot say or recommend, unfortunately. It made me feel better to write it, though.

My Eyes Fill With Red

 

 

Why do my eyes fill up with red strain?

Why, dear, do they crackle?

 

Why do I seem silly to myself?

 

Perhaps I've forgotten,

fluency.

 

 

 

To dash fluency against a rock,

to kill it-

 

to create in its waves never ending-

make granite from them.

 

Granite can be broken-

 

The art of poetry I'll scatter,

against the floor,

so in a million ways,

little balls of sparkling red,

ornaments break-

and a Christmas tree resembling in my poor mind,

what once these soulful words,

had meant-

but now they have from their brambles fell . . .

and swooped to mourning,

breaking upon impact.

 

Will I ever find for what I'm looking?

 

Can fluency and poetry,

mean anything to me?

 

True. True. They do glitter . . .

 

ornaments of red have roguish associations however-

and poetry breaks-

languages are granite,

thrown against the sorry wall!

How shall I shatter them all?

These words I want

to break like the pen I'm holding.

 

Break them . . .

break- them.