“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.” Jean Cocteau Like maps Wrinkled by time, With faded yellow edges That denote past rhymes. In the Unknown Indefinitely trapped With simple features, Smooth or chapped, These sculpted creatures Reconstruct Déjà-vus known And reveries sewn Many moons ago. Solemn Whispered sighs And silent eyes So profound that you may…
“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” Maya Angelou soothing melodies, like a stream, accompany my silent, forlorn thoughts. guitar strings slowly quiver in harmony with my secret heart, delicately drumming inside. drumming inside, hidden yearning to break free from the chains of time that snug and snide keep me tied.…
“Writing poetry is a state of free float.” Margaret Atwood music surrounds me, my pen glides on white, structured paper, my feelings in tides. let them run wild, free spirits in gusting winds they skilfully ride, and I, I finally feel liked I’ve arrived.