An English teacher once told our entire High School class, “You need to know the rules of writing and grammar before you can break them.” Completely untrue. Be original. -M. Taggart
I believe poetry means what it needs to mean to the reader. I remember reading poetry while in college and listening to the professor dissect the work. Often I would disagree. I think if a reader takes from a piece something of value, something that might even help internally, then the piece has accomplished a service in that moment for that reader. Even if what the reader took from the literature was not what the author intended. This is simply my opinion.
When someone reads a piece that I’ve written and expresses their understanding of that piece, I appreciate their expression. Even if had nothing to do with what I was thinking while writing it. It doesn’t matter. Not to me.
I’m curious, do any of you also think about this?
Don’t ask someone to be kind
Ask them to be real
And let them find their kindness
There are lines of words put together
in such a manner that they adjust minds
bringing a clarity of being which beckons a return
These are the authors I consider timeless greats
And gender, nor color of skin matters in this
realm, nor will it ever; to obtain wellness
from words pushing humanity toward
its best possible version may not have been
the goal at the onset, but they have become the
light that so many of us have needed to drink
No better is my shadow than any other
as this theater of life continues on
- You wrote it.
- You didn’t care if you received 1 or 100 likes.
- You sat and bled just as Hem said to do and it makes perfect fucking sense to you.
- You read your work the next day and squirmed. You’re onto it. Keep going.
- You haven’t any choice but to write so you do. And you do. And you do.
- A family member read one of your pieces and said nothing. Instead they cried.
- You love yourself enough to write. So fucking write.
when no one’s there to pour a sonnet down your throat
easing your expressions of pain as your scorching metallic rage
sets itself against its blade-
shiver first with an angle and propel thy teeth against a hue from the heavens
it’s early morning
broken leaves are crying again
let us find them
in this violence ‘they’ play
begging crowds to act
until the sun finally does shine
hiding in the wooded darkness
pressing for the crumbling of all veins
hoping for the chaotic and exacting destruction
that’s been asked to be created under our feet
Come Now Sun
flood the broken leaves
and melt the ones
who’ve pushed them into being
Thank you for reading. Cheers.
If you truly know your mirror than you understand life and you can write about it. No matter your level of education. They are your words. Use them.
Oh- certainly we saw you
hunched shoulders, laboring, tears streaming
We raged through the streets
demanding your sacrifice
So much so that you became lost
It’s been too long now
your metamorphosis of thought,
beautifully etched into the frame of a wooden windowsill
is waiting to be read
your tears stained History-
what have we done
copyright 2017. If you like it, share it.
To frame the face with a sickened clog-
Our throats pinch bile