PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Take heed: The birth of a poem

It's first breaths, the distinction of the words

They lie down like sticks

They are an infection of possibilities



There are plenty of two o clocks in the afternoon,

but this one is different

This one is evolving

I smash wild berries in my palm, then wipe

them off on the awakening ground



Given the inspiration, I could generally be clever

I could describe a glass of wine as the

beginning of a confession, or,

an image that would paint a moving mouth across a

constellation of skin

A very distant, brown island of an arm.



I could over-exaggerate by saying I

write better when I wear my favorite shoes

Well, that would be a far stretch of the truth

They are black with white stripes and only cheap

imitations of some "big to do"

and my last attempt at being a part of a malfunctioning society

But still, they are my favorite shoes.



I filtered the naked Earth between my fingers

I am touched, by this thing

A split second instant of a fiery possibility

I am blazed, by this thing

I only wish I could gain feeling in my words again



Take notice: The death of a poem

The cutting of its throat and the wincing for its air

Oh, the graceful wane of its battlecry,

buried delicately by the hands which put it there