There is a poem inside of me.
It exists in the subdued sunsets
of my eyes when tightly pressed.
Every time I retreat inward
I feel it crawling, clawing
on the inside of my eyelids
like cat that wants to be let out.
–
That feverish third eye
that knows without knowing,
that stirs the primordial soup
and remakes itself each day
on the bones of my grief.
–
I feel everything to exhaustion,
you might say I am histrionic.
Perhaps you will think me a villain
for all the confession I have made.
For
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/2018/08/poets-united-midweek-motif-of-poems.html
mindlovemisery 