Author Information
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.
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