I write when I'm hurt
On the ground, in the dirt
Covered in mud, blood on my shirt
Down cast, down trodden
Spitting up thoughts, rotten
I write when I feel joy
Simple emotion from a complex boy
Who just wants to play with toys
Up beat, up in mood
Smiling bright, jokes ever crude
I cannot write when I feel nothing
An empty turkey, no stuffing
Blank faced enthused bluffing
Here in the middle I'm lost
Neither burning heat nor frozen frost
Limbo has become my home
And I can't possibly know what's real
How am I to make up my mind
When I cannot seem to feel
An empty turkey, no stuffing
Blank faced enthused bluffing
Here in the middle I'm lost
Neither burning heat nor frozen frost
Limbo has become my home
And I can't possibly know what's real
How am I to make up my mind
When I cannot seem to feel
Obiously you must have some strong feelings about being in limbo. Very nicely stated! Poetry is meant to be felt, by the poet and the reader.
ReplyDeleteIf only we could all express how we feel like you do. Many of us feel it but can't describe it or feel it but don't acknowledge it. UGH
ReplyDeleteOh Cousin...how you remind me of myself. Here is a tiny snippet of something I wrote many years ago...."this mediocre madness drives me ever deeper into melancholy malaise..." (I was into alliteration at the time clearly lol)
ReplyDeleteLove ya
Heather
Thanks for the feedback, cuz! Love the alliterations haha
ReplyDelete