Proverbs 18:21
21 Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruits.
This is a poem for sad women.
It belongs to that ubiquitous, yet peculiar sect of
women who are destined to lack necessary
qualities which reap lives of gaiety and
terminal bliss.
Those who nurtured us should have warned
that women of talent encounter
ice walls which melt only for coquettish smiles.
At best, we could have known to conceal
our natural resources.
Most writers will relate to the compulsion that can occur when you are writing. It can be ceaseless, day or night, you think of a line and have to write it down before the idea escapes you. It’s our addiction of sorts…
Word Jones
Nose open inhaling time
Your head and hands make contact and
Ignite the smoking mind
With a need
You deal a line to whomever wants a hit
Waking words inject rhyme
Trip in waiting rooms where
Junkies have no sleep lines to trace
Thoughts will always find you-
They clasp creative veins and constrict
Normal flow outside the high place
What I wanted to say
About what I’m thinking
What I’m feeling
What I know, what I am afraid of now is you
Strange in too many ways
You don’t fit me
And makes me sadder
Than I ever want to be again
I’d like to have me back
Just as uncluttered and stoic
My heart needs no aerobics of emotion anymore
Jolting up and down
Leaves me tired for too long afterwards
And I won’t come back again
Because of burn-out
You remind me of offerings
That never replace themselves
But slowly drain
An uneven transfusion