Nov 21, 2013

You, Me, and Our Ink (revised)

In open books, the pages blank like thoughts in frozen ice.
She begins to write onto her canvas of butt naked fantasy.
She views her expressive ink. Only she and her pen in the know...
Ever so often the spirited child appears and scribbles a pencil
dream onto her walls. She remembers it like yesterday.
The bold watermarks stream line after line.
The ballad soul hops in and out of discrete rhyme.

But, who really gives a hoot?
Whoo! Whoo! Still, the owl spins its head around.
Therefore, she gloats, showboats to downplay the feeling that
make her pen strokes sensitive.
No one can understand her reasoning,
not even her... Is this why she consults with the third person?
The poetry she metabolizes at the heart of the table.

Some pages have been stolen from her history.
This allows her to be read like a mystery book nobody can figure out.
And she scribes; subscribes to the pain so pleasurable.
As she blot out minutes and hours of strangled paper.
She remembers it like yesterday. This is an ever growing flame.
Her story must be told, if not by her than by me.
Every day is a pondering to discover while remaining true to she.

 jhp ©2011-2012



No comments:

Post a Comment