Write

Write more!
Write more!
Write more!
Write!
Does it still count as poetry,
if it's written out of spite?

Bark

People will strip you,
so unhesitatingly,
of your scars,
for the sake of their own comfort.
As though trees could survive,
without bark.

Late January

I haven't written here this year.

But today I saw the wind in the grass.

I saw the sun shining through the grey clouds.

I read poetry I didn't quite agree with.

A strange hot day.

The air smelled of sweat.

I held the seeds of a plant I grew in my hand.

And I can genuinely tell you,

I don't know anything.

Bukowski said some lose their mind,

others lose their soul,

I've been split down the middle,

mind and soul,

human and animal,

water and fire,

for so long.

I haven't lost anything,

it's just that we're,

not in one place at the same time.

That when we sit together and drink coffee,

looking at the world around us,

it seems so alien.

People calling me weird,

but then they refuse to see the sky,

they refuse to hear the music,

they refuse to see the wind dancing.

I don't know anything.

But I know the seeds in my hand.

I know wind in my hair.

I know the whispering heat,

that simmers on my chest.

-o0o-