Sometimes love goads,
It forces reticent wings
Into a blinding wind.
When in your company
I prefer disturbance
To the quantifications
Of a habitual silence.
–
My days are sheets
Of crumpled paper
And these poems
Which are awakenings
In theory are only
Fodder in practice.
Whose thighs and whose hands
Cradle my organs mutely?
Whose lips tear prophetic riffs
From my capricious knees?
–
Who needs to repeat the mistakes
Of their predecessors to recognize
Their own penchant to madness?
We want all our angels diseased
That we may count our blessings.
For each life there is a luxury
That will euthanize it
If substituted for passion.
–
It feels to me that I have several poems in here but I didn’t give myself enough time to write today so I guess this is more stream of conscious than poetry.
mindlovemisery 