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Honey Eversden Poem
17th November 2020
Beating muscle beneath frail skin,
Rigid bone beneath strong muscle,
A warm full of life fleshy heart,
Thumping with feeling and passion,
Taking a stand on your sleeve,
No lies can be told in flesh and blood,
A cold, worm filled, empty rib cage,
Cracked gnarled and hollow,
Hiding away beneath veins and sorrow,
Whispering sweet lies into your skin,
Frail flaky bone,
Brittle stretchy muscle,
When you’re dead and when you’re gone,
Who stays?
The bone
Who withers away?
The heart
Even in death the empty chasm lies
Even in death the empty chasm consumes
My feeble beating heart devoured by the earth
And the bones who lied their way out of it
I would say by the skin of their teeth
But we both know they don’t have room for it anymore
Copyright © Honey Eversden | Year Posted 2020
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Honey Eversden Poem
Just beyond my fingertips
lies all I’ve ever wanted,
All over my fingertips,
lies all I’ve ever been.
On the tip of my tongue
are the words I never said;
Tainting my tongue
is what I wish I hadn’t.
On the surface of my skin
rests all of my potential;
Etched into my bone
is what I will achieve.
Dissolved in my tears
are nights I never knew;
Behind my eyelids
are nights I’m glad I was there for.
Grazing my heart
is everything I’ve ever felt;
In my veins
are the things I’m lucky I did
Ringing in my ears
are all the things I’ve heard,
Beating in the drum
is all I ever needed to hear.
I have a fragile body,
yet my mind is brittle,
All I ever needed to tell you
was already there on my skin.
Copyright © Honey Eversden | Year Posted 2020
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Honey Eversden Poem
Where do we poets go?
Hiding in the shadows of small towns and big cities,
Where do we poets go?
Spilling our hearts out onto paper for the world to see,
Where do we poets go?
When we no longer hold the pen with pride,
I’d like to believe we live on,
in ripped page corners and whispers of ‘where should I start?’
I’d like to believe we live where our imagination is needed,
Creativity welcoming us with open arms,
a smile for his lucky few,
his creative wonderers and idealists;
us who question the very fabric mother nature sewed,
us who like to scribble on her walls,
us who pinned our work up on her fridge,
Wouldn't it be lovely,
to be remembered for the words we never spoke,
the names we never uttered or even went by,
the streets and shadows we hid in?
Where do we poets go?
Because we certainly don’t die.
Wednesday 25 November 2020
Copyright © Honey Eversden | Year Posted 2020
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