PoetA Poem by MarkSometimes it hurts in a rage Crystal blue covered in grey I knew insecure, guilty silence Everyone's shared secret I was sure I couldn't know. Something was wrong, I wasn't right. There must be something, Something I don't know. Whitman, his crisp words cummins defining what's whole Plath defined my deities. Thomas' life on a farm. Sometimes I mourn for the souls in tuned, self ovened against the bleeding soft, tired journeys running rails into the night. I've a lifetime of confusion, straining like a turtle at the finish line so long, so far, I'm so tired trying to see the reality of me. Patti's future held glittering sharp crystalline precise visions of resonations, of chords vibrating soul that I am. Simple. Is it the fine tuned mind that pains? or maybe the isolation we self impose. no, we don't choose. We, are chosen.
© 2015 MarkReviews
|
Stats
774 Views
11 Reviews Added on October 8, 2015 Last Updated on October 9, 2015 AuthorMarkDallas, TXAboutI"m a gypsy born in New Hampshire, raised in Alaska, schooled in Washington, raised a family in California. Recently settled in Concord NH area. Where to next? I don't really have to think about it, i.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|