Something like a diary

I didn't edit, or think about it, or let myself delete it. I started writing and hit "enter."

She was so unremarkably sad

In her little space by the sea.

Words never lived on her pages,

an infinity of music, whispering through the trees

the unsung melancholy of autumn, 

a ghost in the breeze

The constraints of time within her mind

unremarkable

a self-evolving disease

buzzing like a hive of xenophobic bees

she can't take the

screaming of a million dead ghosts and the

pain of a thousand years, a thousand love's lost and a 

thousand miles walked, just to find

she's just as far in as she'll ever be out

she's another casualty of infinite human selfishness

and it's all clamoring like these words are

these fingers clamor to solidify the abstract of my pain

to make it a little less heavy, i'm writing to you

no one

and i'm saying I die a little every 

single day

And it's such a shame

That the beauty in me, the sweetness, the electricity

all of it's wasting

away, and i'm nothing but fragility

now

Because love is the cruelest affection

and to my terror

and trepidation

I see more of my mother in my face

And my father in my pain

I can't take another day, swelling up like swine

swallowing the hurt and disdain

wine soaked in the rain

and listening to the infinity of music

the one place

I can be free. 

Reviews

[Rosalind Gale]

I love this, like the subconscious and conscious crashing together. I do understand as well ... about music and freedom. I have not been here for some time - I am slightly shocked that some of the best poets (basically all my friends!) are so under-read. Why is that? Years ago so many wonderful writers were read and appreciated. I think poetry might be dying as an art form, like a swamp of words with everyone and everything drowning. Ho hum, I so much hope you are happy my dearest. Much love always -

Rosa
-xxxx-