deepundergroundpoetry.com
Tired conversations.
There are stranger words to say to a poet,
or a lover of words and fiction,
Than you speak through telephone wires.
These are polite invasions.
Of the evening, yes. Of my mind, a soul,
and I don’t think even your God knows of my feeling.
There is still blood in the equation,
complications plenty, live in abundance of all the wrong things.
Waiting for a cure.
Waiting for a promise.
Something to remedy the issue of a few broken phrases,
of a few misdirected proclamations.
And won’t you go on?
or a lover of words and fiction,
Than you speak through telephone wires.
These are polite invasions.
Of the evening, yes. Of my mind, a soul,
and I don’t think even your God knows of my feeling.
There is still blood in the equation,
complications plenty, live in abundance of all the wrong things.
Waiting for a cure.
Waiting for a promise.
Something to remedy the issue of a few broken phrases,
of a few misdirected proclamations.
And won’t you go on?
Published 26th Sep 2012
| Edited 1st Oct 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2
reading list entries 0
comments 1
reads 115
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
27th Sep 2012 2:52am
I adore and loathe your seemingly natural ability to write so damn well! Ugh. Whyyy?! Your poetry reminds me of Sylvia Path at times. Also, I like your absence of rhyme. Your words stand beautifully on their own, untainted by uneccesary rhyme. One day I hope someone in their right minds publishes your work bc it needs to be recognized. It really does.
