Poem To Myself
Poem to Myself
You ask to be birthed,
when you know I have passed
the age of passion to sing anything
sweeter than a harmonious hymn.
My taste for life is hollow blue
and all I know is hawks flying and lilting leaves falling.
There is no honey in the suckle.
If I were awake, I would sing of
blackness and morning star,
being beautiful, heritage of queens,
mama songs and Tennessee,
knowing full well that there’s
no place, no ears, no eyes.
I am the scorned sister.
I write words and dream.
I look at a group of trees in summer and see
that wonderful, magical country,
to which I never go.
Is that who I am?
The newspaper can't tell my future and
for a twenty-dollar phone call to a psychic
will there be hope, a while.
Yes, my precious self,
you ask to be birthed
yet you hide your real face
behind the white peaks of a
daily psychotropic cocktail,
parasites of the mind that suck the senses.
Oh, but if you break free,
if you get to feel,
just once
limitless wonder
WOW!
'old poems, FREE VERSE (003)
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Copyright © Janis Thompson | Year Posted 2016
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