"i. they tell me they
cannot understand art.
where art is,
whispers reside.
ii. i tell them that the only art
i require are the words that
bleed onto paper.
iii. the world is a quiet place
for an angel without a voice.
iv. the world is a loud place
when nobody is listening.
v. they tell me it doesn't work like that.
there are compromises for art.
sports. science. history.
vi. but i want to speak.
there are moments that fleet away
when i do not store them.
there are impulses that dab off
when i do not write.
vii. when i am alive, i burst
open with Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson.
my hair fluffs with words.
my veins cry with poetry.
viii. welcome to my poetry book.
i hope you drown in the words you sink in."
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...
