Accustomed

Folder: 
Paper Pursuit

 

Everyone is accustomed

to my blemished behaviors

within the sacred circle

of our hopeful ambitions.

We live as a loving family

who worry as we wither

and yet we find a fondness,

a proper sense of progress.

Little lamb bleats between

the syllable and the sickness.

Stagnation and perplexity,

rainclouds of hidden tears,

hover in my mother's mind,

who lies stressed, sleepless,

in a tomb of soft torment,

awaiting a great unwavering

cosmic kiss of balanced bliss

and a mad poet's existence.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I drafted this yesterday with Shrimp Dinner. They correlate.

I didn't post it then because I thought it was a little too personal. 

But after some rendering, at least it reads like a real poem.

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Starward's picture

It doesn't just "read like a

It doesn't just "read like a real poem." it reads as a real poem, because it is a real poem.  As for being too personal, I have noticed that you have the enviable talent of making the personal a conveyor of the universal.  This poem is both real, and real good.  I sure do look forward to more like it.


Starward

[* /+/ ^]

Pungus's picture

Furthermore

This poem went on the Refrigerator for my mom to see.

I am glad that it was emotionally forthright and effective.

We reminisced and pondered our struggles together.