i post a lot of beautiful poems. but i don't always feel beautiful inside and sometimes i have harder days. even the agony is wonderful, and in one of my older poems (TO FEEL) i really hammered that home. more recently, in 'let it happen' i have allowed every wash of pain to be exactly that - nothing more, nothing less.
sometimes, it's not poetic and it's not lovely. creating art of it makes it more meaningful and maybe a little less painful too. i await summer like a child in front of a sweet shop.
when did winter find me?
i hadn’t hid well enough,
in the warmth of my sheets.
it is sunny, yet i shiver and
rue the day the cold began.
it climbs through my hands
and my arms and even my little
pinky finger.
it freezes me up, ice fractals
shattering my blood vessels,
until i cannot even write.
the sun will
melt me away
there’s lots of gaps in
my n a me
and i do nt
we a r the same jewellery.
you’ve re a d my poems?
ha ve y ou f ound me i n
th e m ?
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