The chubbiness of your dense casing
Is an insulator indeed
The small still voice is hindered permeate
The depth of a copious essence
A mind never regenerated
In new known ways to profit
Hence your way is wood as you cuddle it
Time’s river drowning dreams afar shore
As you trot in ways antique
With golden opportune wilting
Hence amity is fog
Categories:
insulator, 12th grade, courage, hope,
Form: Free verse
I love the smell of fresh cut wood. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know.
Why would you?
You never asked.
Wooden hearts dangling over a baby’s bassinet.
Be not hard like my wooden heart, chipped as a cedar output.
Wood is an insulator right?
Keeping it in like the charge of some electrical outlet cover.
Innocuous scriptures.
A vamp, that shouldn’t have, should have known better.
You should have asked me all my favorites.
I love the smell of wood, for wooden hearts cannot be broken.
Merely splintered and sawed of one’s own, free disposition and handiwork.
Let’s carve another organ.
One that can’t do anything but be whole.
Lucky wood.
Poetry is jagged and true, an inconspicuous fopa.
That’s not it.
I want to write a poem that is capturing.
One in which I can dice the words as may entice if not displease.
Here goes…
Categories:
insulator, beauty, break up, emo,
Form: Prose Poetry
Bubbled glass in green
lit with tongues, electric hewn
now sit empty, brought down from the sky
in line on his antique armoire
The sun still remembers them
and kisses their skin
their insulator breath like a fire within
Breaking my walls
in reflections electric
passing the days with no purpose.
Categories:
insulator, art, happiness, life, people,
Form: Free verse