I do not claim to be A Poet. I do, however, claim to be A Person Who Has A Lot Going On In Their Head. And sometimes, all of that stuff blabbering about in my head needs to get out. Mostly, it gets out in the form of crayon and frantic scribbling. Occasionally, it gets out in the form of words. A sort of, sudden jumbled surge of words - though, evidently, not very many of them. (Note to my brain - an attention span just a tad longer might be nice.) And so, I present to you, my very short poetry collection of very short poems.
wildflowers
a belle of the snow,
she
is plucked, admired, displayed,
crushed
white-on-white
she
is veiled, paper-thin,
wavering.
silent roars in the wind,
soundlessly howling:
"delicacy is strength".
no typhoon nor tide
can stop the march to March
her bowed head will rise.
art
"F*** you" said Capitalism.
"No, f*** you" said Creativity.
you're a monopoly board and that, like everything else, is meaningless
i feel compressed:
into a small cube
21 red circles
carved into my face
and you rearrange the letters
of the instruction manual
every
single
day
please stop fiddling
the yellow line
how can i stand behind
when i am so busy
please-minding-the-gap between
my lungs
failure has paid me a visit and i am not as cool as novi
better fingertips
have graced these keys
light and delicate
perhaps it isn't so black and white
as these as
it stares me in the face
the low grumble
the narrowing eyes
breathing too much too loud too close
this is a reminder.
a tribute to lost ideas
once in a while
silence pays a visit
together we stroll
among the graves of those i have lost
the scattered letters, the hectic lines,
all else formless
they are fleeting
cursed to a destiny of lifelessness
i'm sorry