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Mackenzie Hudson Poem
I live everyday in a prison cell - trapped
I rattle the bars, but no one can hear
How long can I stay - here?
My thoughts never leaving my mind
Like messages intercepted by strict guards
They're left behind to rot.
I've found that when I speak
My voice squeaks - soft, childish sounds
Thoughts flow without control
So I slam the door shut
Swallow the key
I'll be content in this jail
With thoughts for company.
All alone with my mind
I grow disillusioned
In my confusion
One thought consumes
The search for freedom.
I wail and shriek with such fury
That the Jailer comes
Placing pen in my hand
His one command - Write!
And my cries intensify
I'll never escape!
I put pen to paper
Hopeless, longing
A few thoughts fly free
Breaking off, releasing me
And I find that when I write
I speak in whatever voice I choose
My thoughts orderly diffuse
Touching pen to paper
I am Master
I own my own mind.
And inside - finally free
Released from incarceration
The chains relax - I breathe.
With pen to paper
For a few moments, just a precious few
I roam the playground of consciousness
Exploring, searching,
Finally autonomous - I just am.
With pen to paper
I am most me.
I have the freedom to be -
Who I am -
Minus filters and lies.
With pen to paper
The words course through my blood
Surging, overtaking
Beating out their song of freedom
Until we are one.
Copyright © Mackenzie Hudson | Year Posted 2015
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Mackenzie Hudson Poem
If poetry were a man
And he would be a man
As he exhibits all the symptoms of the most haunting members of that sex
On the one hand, a near-crippling arrogance, yet balanced by great likeability
He dons black vintage t-shirts and a bomber jacket
A girl in a red halter lights his cigarette
He drinks espresso as lesser men drink water
And the night, the beautiful night, is his.
With us, his poets, he intrudes with a strange codependence
And we respond with ready affinity
His favorite time to visit is 3 am
Drunk, of course.
We make the coffee
And as he sobers, he tells the most wonderful stories
As we wait, pen in hand.
Copyright © Mackenzie Hudson | Year Posted 2016
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Mackenzie Hudson Poem
Imagine the people of the world knit in an ethereal quilt of star stuff.
People as masses of cosmic vibrations,
Perhaps we could synchronize our rhythms
Aligning the small particles that hum within each of us,
I would pluck a star from the heavens
To turn our world from hate to love.
Copyright © Mackenzie Hudson | Year Posted 2016
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Mackenzie Hudson Poem
The master once told me
All the things I shouldn’t do when I write poetry.
I shouldn’t ensnare my reader with a complex plot
Forcing them to fight their way out of my lines.
I shouldn’t entrap them with language
Hiding my meaning underneath layers of flowery effusions
But the master did not say what to do
And neither did he say what poetry is.
And my mind jumps rope with questions of metaphysics-
Is poetry only poetry when it pours forth out of mind
And onto paper.
Or do I see poetry?
Do I touch it when I roll the windows down, feeling the cool breeze
Draping my hand lazily out the window
As if to grasp another’s
Their hand always just out of reach
As I cruise down this straight shot and into an eternity.
Copyright © Mackenzie Hudson | Year Posted 2016
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