Worry
I sometimes worry knowing poetry can be so subjective, you know
And yet, I still choose poetic verse to enounciate my story, but doing so I still worry
I choose poetry to mail my experiences through similes, imagery, and silliloquies but still I worry that the meaning of my words aren’t reaching
like the voices in your heads aren’t hearing my warnings
I’m calling. But i keep receiving. Voice mail.
It’s hard for me to differentiate poetry from the meaningless rhymes and word crimes In my haystack mind
Pricked by the cold, bitter sweet needle of reality
Revealed by the snitching blood of my poetry, sharp but not unexpected
It’s biology, a mystery. An art. A story.
Bitter sweet the sting until we realize it’s reality
Bringing light, to the colour of life and it’s futility
Im afraid to live because of my worry -
I’m afraid to speak because of my poetry -
It burdens my words, painted red with the blood of poetry witch flows in my veins unknowingly-
I bleed into the world but worry covers the stain.
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