SCAVENGER

539
  0%
  0

Tags

A poem that speaks for itself.

 

I do not write poetry,

poetry writes me

 

I steal it from the breeze

that rustles my thoughts,

from the canvas that teases

the cravings of my soul.

 

I snatch it from the morning mist

rip apart it's buzzing heart

open my clenched fist

and let it return to dust.

 

I'm a thief, a pauper, a rag-picker

scavenging for words to write.

 

No, I do not write poetry

I never wished to write

I wanted to be a lawyer

a wife, a mother: something trite.

 

But you died and left me

this stunning bouquet ‎of tears.

Through shimmering memories and  pain

I find I'm condemned to verse

 

YOU made me what I am : a  beggar, a waif, a tramp

forever scrounging for words to write.

__________

 

 

Global Scriggler.DomainModel.Publication.Visibility
There's more where that came from!