Poet

Sometimes it hurts in a rage

Crystal blue covered in grey

I knew insecure, guilty silence

Everyone's shared secret I was sure I couldn't know.

Something was wrong,

I wasn't right.

There must be something,

Something I don't know.

Whitman, his crisp words

cummins defining what's whole

Plath defined my deities.

Thomas' life on a farm.

Sometimes I mourn for the souls

in tuned, self ovened against the bleeding

soft, tired journeys

running rails into the night.

I've a lifetime of confusion, 

straining like a turtle at the finish line

so long, so far, I'm so tired

trying to see the reality of me.

Patti's future held glittering

sharp crystalline precise visions

of resonations, of chords

vibrating soul that I am. Simple.

Is it the fine tuned mind that pains?

or maybe the isolation we self impose.

no, we don't choose.

We, 

are chosen.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I believe, some of us need to read and write.
"Is it the fine tuned mind that pains?
or maybe the isolation we self impose.
no, we don't choose.
We,
are chosen."
Maybe it is our will to write and create. Always a pleasure to read your words Mark.
Coyote