Poetry – Bound

Hey all,

This poem speaks for itself, but it is best read out loud by far.




I think I’m addicted to poetry:
The words flow through me torrentially
and I know that eventually
I’ll be mentally spent,
physically bent on creating –

I’ll be maintaining
these literal paintings,
I’ll use the remaining
breath in my fingers,
those delicate bringers
of new thoughts,

new ideas untaught
rhythms made fraught,
webs pulled taught,
naught but a small
sort of catharsis.

And then when the feeling passes,
like a million smashed vases
the class is over.

I try to slow her,
but my Muse is a clover:
her four leaves leave me sober
and I can’t believe I got to
know her.

So I bestow her with passion,
ration irrationally –
pure banality life’s fatality –
but a secret part of me
would like to see
where I will be in twenty years –

Have I faced
my fears?

Held back

Watched near misses
pass me by?

All I know is I can try,
pry floating thoughts
from frozen ports.

A wry smile’s on her lips
and the ships report bad news
of good views.

So I guess I’ll simply choose
my paths better,
and won’t just let a
precocious letter
confound me.

Then, I’ll be unwound
and let out a triumphant sound,
let the words resound
and in the end,


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