The Anatomy of Love

Permalink · 2 · 10 months ago
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  • poetry is asleep
  • stirring only to make you feel, to
  • creep into your heart and make a home
  • with fences that you thought would keep you safe
  • but instead of keeping something out
  • you kept it in

  • perhaps it is awake
  • renting a room in your mind
  • leaving the light on, shining brightly into your frontal lobe
  • evoking emotions you haven’t seen in awhile

  • like the ringing of wind chimes outside your door
  • the children calling to each other in the night
  • or the last time you reached out your hand
  • whether it was to help
  • or to ask for it

  • there was a time when the words were foreign
  • the native language of my tongue
  • was just as any other but
  • we still understood

  • the sounds slipping from my lips and 
  • the movement of my body
  • was, innocent and incandescent in it’s truth
  • that, my love,
  • is poetry
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my mind is a maze

Sometimes I don’t know what to say

I can hear the words but they don’t fit together quite right
         They fumble to find their place
         And wonder of their purpose
Just one word by itself cannot tell you
what I want to tell you
won’t show you
what I want to show you
the words look for each other
and create beautiful combinations
paralleling human nature
         We fumble to find our place
         And wonder of our purpose
But when we learn to grasp our definitions
And get to know our synonyms and accept our antonyms
We can surround ourselves with others
And create an infinite amount of expressions

Permalink · 2 · 2 years ago
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Permalink · 2 · 2 years ago