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Uneasily Methphorically
I met a man
who broke out
in a sweat
When I asked him
to read my poems
I thought it was odd
to be so distraught
I never saw
this phenomenon
His eyes looked
long gone
So:
It got me thinking
About:
what's wrong
with poetry
Isn't:
It about syllables
we count
and the timing
in rhyming
And:
The smelling
of dirt
in organicly
growing words
With:
Thoughts flowing
underneath
our surface
Accompanied:
By emotions
exuding
out of
our being
Then:
The thought
hit me
he
couldn't see
Because:
He
didn't understand
empathy
he's
the product
of sociopathy
So:
I clicked
my pen
and went on
to pretend
That:
What was
deficient
in him
wouldn't
affect
the writing
in me
After:
I went on
to florish
with my
well chosen
stories
Then when:
He still
couldn't
get them
Low and Behold:
I had to close
my poems
................with
"The End."
Copyright ©
Holly Bohto
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