May 21, 08
Syringed at the crest of burdened wings
Illiterately she sang memorized prayers
Forgave the sins of cold feet on sand
Too hot sand by two twin heat spun suns
Love and hate burn too brightly for eyes
Don't fill the holes with wounded blood
You cannot filter the dirt mixed within
White faces of shame scarred by howls
Deep lines stretched singular from lips
As she whimpered as he screamed
Spinning tales as much as she weaves
Blankets and clothes for her children dolls
Slipping on the blood of her fore-mother
But not quite caring...But not quite caring
And she'll never stop not quite caring.
I Believe in Beautiful Words
About Me
- Color Changed
- "I write like people doodle and sing in the shower. All the time, anything, yet always seemingly less than adequate." -Me. Blogs are here for me to put random thoughts And for random people to read? That seems idiotic and futile. What do I gain from my out-put? Surely you gain nothing from this in-put If I keep rambling on and on, will you keep reading? That seems foolish. Why are you wasting time? And why am I? . (Not all poetry may be listed in the right order or writing, follow the dates at the beginning of each writing. Inconvenience I know- Oh well-)
No comments:
Post a Comment