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thoughts on poetry and it's critique

Try telling the thousands
all around the world
that 'I have a dream' wouldn't be
a poetic symphony
if the sounds of the vowels didn't drop
on each second syllable
and take the proverbial step-back
letting the concept take the forefront
of the phrase

Try telling the ex-slave traders
that that single wave of thought
skipping silently
into the mind of their society
wasn't scary
because it lacked a bastard 'b'
to blacken the occasion

And try telling me this
without a hint of poetic integrity-
no assonance with i's and e's intertwining
on the page
and the writer stepping back surprised
at the shocking twists of phrase,
the form and rhyme within the lines
that connotate and connotate

Or give me a just phrase
of nonsense poetry
that is beautiful purely
because of the writers sonical
and lyrical ability
skipping between the Tumtum trees
with no cognitive responsibility.

Please, just give me language,
a tool to connect minds.
Allow the words to breathe
and you might find
within them, a dream
of truth and rhyme combined.



Your Bedroom Floor

God I love your honesty
Your brutal, brutal honesty
I left you on the bedroom floor
But now all the reasons lost to me

God I miss your tapestry
Black curtains causing travesty
Ending in catastrophy
Fuck me with your blasphemy

"Where did all the tension go?"
I'll be honest... I don't know
Breathe your scent
Just touch a little
Stroke your back right up the middle
Your eyes have dilated so much more
As I sit with my back
Against the door
"How long have you been waiting for?"
Since I left you on your bedroom floor.



Graves of our Fathers

we'd drink around fires that burned between pillars
of the ruins and dreams of the town's founders.
gaze out at the wastelands as smoke
hovered over the treeline.
if someone was looking for action
that place was a gold mine.
it was the graves of our fathers
that brought us together
where kids would grow up
and only-children found brothers
in the glow of fire pits
that lit up their bottles of liquor.

they'd talk about leaving
but they all end up settling
they'll long for the city
but die old in the country
they'll never know how perfect they have it
in that burial ground
where they learn their bad habits