Self- Analyzing
I wrote this poem five minutes ago
And five minutes later I was just wondering what happened
In my head to write this particular poem
Why does this poem really?
Why I did not write a short story or a Bio
When the heroine is having a monster babe
Or my Mother as a whore by the time I was 12?
What was inside my head that made me to create
It into a format most of us do not dare to cross?
Could be different if I’ve been drawn
A phallus on a black sheet and burned it under my feet?
Like this:
The moon peers between
My hairs toward the shadows
And by the black clouds
This motion wasn’t in my hands.
I know … I know…
I am thinking now more that a fool
Than a man dying with pain.
Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2012
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