So I suppose you'll have to settle for this.
This (lack of) poetry is pretty disgusting
But right now, it's all I'm coming up with.
Does it bother you
That I speak from my heart and mind
Instead of having my inefficient words
Follow specific meter and rhyme?
I'll tell you a secret...
I really don't care.
These words aren't anything but air
And they bear no more substance than our breaths
Frozen in the cold, trailing upwards in the wind
Like so many frozen souls escaping.
The wisp of my breath has given simple secrets form
Now, tell me a secret of yours.
Talk to me in whispers that glide
Like ice water over my senses
Speak to me in torrents of sotto voce
That have nothing to do with anything
But still mean everything to me.
Speak to me in tones you consider to be mono-
But still run the gamut of my emotional spectrum.
Speak to me so that you can listen.
Listen as I take these words from the same breath that you gave to me
And weave them into a flowing tapestry of poetic injustice.
It just is.
And I can't change it
And you can't change it
So let's just try to rearrange it.
Like I said, the great poems have already been written
And this mess certainly isn't my best
But I need to get it out here
So I can put my mind to rest.
January 5, 2007 05:51 AM PST
Gamut rhymes with
'can it' but lacks what
it can with.
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