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The Voice
there is a quiver, a voice, a scratch on the back of my throat at all times
that spins magical magnificent memories in the form of words i cannot live without.
i call these wonderfully wierd impulses as my poetry.
but be warned : we poets learn how to twist metaphors and pin imagery.
we make make diamond words out of coal memories.
we know how to bend and shake up words until they shiver and are nothing but dust.
we paint gods out of human palettes.
and i will probably make one out of you too.
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YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
