Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Front Porch Blues

None of my poems are ever finished
They simply grow and become strange
A syllable here, a comma there
Until all I can recognize is my own incompleteness~

As though I could ever write enough
To tie the whole monstrous thing together
This mass of memory and defeat,
Love and it's consequences~

All of it defies capture
Like some semi domesticated beast
Familiar, but still very dangerous
Barely suppressing it's natural violence~

Nothing honest is meant to be chained
I understand that much
And if we are insane, then let it be a liberation
Let it be a reason to live~

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