It comes in the fleeting moments
Fleeting over the expanse
Yet so slowly written as I succumb to it
It's as if shrewd Cupid
Has punctured not my heart but my brain
It reminds me once again
How greatly feelings annoy me
Pestering as they are
Creeping and snapping forward
And withdrawing again
Such as a cobra does
Such as the asp does
And I can't tell whether
I am an unwilling victim
Or Queen Cleopatra herself
All I know is that I am surprisingly satisfied
With the way my brain
Does not direct my speech anymore
And yet I am unsettled
That it is not books I read
But body language
That it is not poetry I create
But my mind twisted into words
That what I cannot control
Is now in his hands
When emotions blur to simple vibrance
No color, shape, or form
That's how I know I must put the pen down
And go and test my speech again.
So here I go.
YOU ARE READING
Written in the Wondering State
Poetry"If we exist only to someday cease, Who are we here to please? These drops of life we continue to seize; Do they make us thieves?" If poetry is constantly spilling out of me like ink upon the parchment of an aspiring writer, then why not write it al...
