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Whitney Lovelace Poem
A PMS Moment (please. make. sense.)
A motionless story sometimes bends me back.
I have to start from the beginning and retrack.
Why can’t it just be simple and kind?
All these negative thoughts, I know they aren’t mine.
So I take these pills and I drink this drink.
Whatever it does to me… it still doesn’t sink.
In--- sink in, please, God!
Let me know I am still human,
Let me be abroad from this state.
Relapse, climb, relapse, climb.
I’m like falling down the mountain every time.
I thought I was special, maybe I still do.
I thought my love was real, maybe it’s real to who?
Myself is my only critic?
The one who writes this to feel free from being pathetic?
Oh, Ah, no orgasm in my way.
I have done so wrong that the blood spears into a distance daze.
My functions, called life, pat me on the back.
But the truth is, my story just motioned me back…
To the pad that says, this is who I am today.
Copyright © Whitney Lovelace | Year Posted 2015
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Details |
Whitney Lovelace Poem
As the tables turn, I ponder, on the wood.
Tap, tap.
The oak of my soul sits in amusement; amused as one could think to be.
The thought of my sense of color in my soul, a looking glass like growing old.
The embedded classification of youth; colorless because of something that is true.
The point I want to make, to live, life.
Life in the tread marks of how you live aren’t my footsteps but my feet on the ground,
the ground of the world that leads me to my next, stepping stone.
I come to notice that the bigger the rock the tougher you love.
Tough love or sensual love; rocks are like a grain in embracement of a solid in statement.
Love should not be stated, I think, thinking it should ponder, like the oak of wood.
Copyright © Whitney Lovelace | Year Posted 2015
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