I write letters,
with words,
made out letters,
they beg,
and they plead,
they have syllables,
some 1,
some 2
or 3
they ask for an answer
or apology,
I wrote one as a eulogy to my soul,
I write paragraphs,
grammar and syntax
inked on the page,
properly.
to convey my thought,
calculated;
at times
euphoric;
others
like
a
graveyard on Long Island
like the deserted house
on the corner of Cherry St.
I write letters,
to you or for myself
but
they never get sent,
they are on my shelf,
above my bed
pouring into my brain,
at 1 maybe
2 in the morning
collecting dust,
becoming prolific
it really is sick ,
how everything i have said,
is written in a letter
with words
made of letters
in paragraphs
with syllables
stacked up on my shelf waiting for you.
It really is sad,
how all my emotions,
find their,
way onto the ,
college ruled,
$2 paper that i bought from Target,
how there ,
isn’t enough
S P A C E
between the lines for them
to be comfortable,
how they
become,
scared of the millions
of Thoughts about
how these
words,
made of letters,
put into paragraphs
full
of Syntax,
and verb
if done improperly will
cast me into a cell where i
will serve a life sentence
bound in these thoughts
i could not convey,
away,
from you
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Drugs, sex, politcs ,love and me
شِعرThis is a collection of poetry I have done recently. I just started to write poetry and well i'm finding that i am pretty good at it, this collection contains a few social critique poems some politically driven and love poems coming from either the...
