There’s a poem floating
Just under the surface.
Simmering and sifting
And swimming without purpose.
What category surely deserves these
Penned and spoken words of glory?!
Or of shit.
I write shit.
But, there’s a rhyme resonating
Between interrogating thoughts.
I ought to just write this…
Avoid the fright of this,
Sit in the quiet with this,
…and be alright with this.
Clean up the scribbles and cut the first three lines,
You’ll find yourself,
just keep floating,
Go deep, go deeper,
Deeper down below.
It hurts down here –
it is fuzzy
and it is dark.
A stark contrast from the shuffling, busy reality;
From muffling electronic noise and visuals,
The Rituals of turning on screens,
Residual energies clinging to the slept-in,
Sweated in sheets you shared with both a lover and both your dreams,
Now these scenes are pleasant and positive,
You’ve just found the perfect category to pop that penned poem into the pocket of!
There are ideas in the hairs on my arms
And through the stubble on my legs.
Mind begs me to note the observations I caught upon my walk up the hill in the breeze,
My knees straining as sneakers feel tight,
Vocals through the right earbud have dropped, if I stop…
I will get too hot,
And the guy behind me will catch up,
Up, up, up the hill I stride,
3, 2, 1 more letterboxes to pass then I’m inside
my house and away from the world…
Ramblings and rantings and creative workings still reside,
They still float just below the surface…
Shimmering and shifting,
is still unknown…
Alone I leave scrambled letters and twisted lines,
Their stanza’d, structured, syntaxed sentencing can stimulate another time,
Because right now,
I’m heading under.