Her Piano is dragged to center stage

I consume the torrents of your poetry and have my way with my own out of spite for not being you

Barefoot youth and youth with a book

Jealous much? Freedom no longer so brilliant

 

He’s a writer, I don’t know what he’s written

But he seems to have

 

Painted over holes with ink

And drowns in martyrs

 

To suffer girls

He could never have!

 

Bereft and broken

Hungry much? For desire’s own

 

Postmodern autopsy

She’s a writer, I don’t know her well

 

But she seems to value connection

Escaping duty a few hours a week

 

What a honey, what a peach

A hairdresser for humanity’s brief delights

 

A professor ranting about our grief

She has a PhD in being Neptune’s daughter

 

And living by the sea

Do you think she will show me

Her imaginary body

Lift her lips to an enemy, like me?

 

Reviews

[Emily B]

these words intrigue me, make me want to taste more of your work

[Prolific In Verse]

Would it not taste like any of my other work Emily? A poet can only write so differently...from themselves.

[Emily B]

your voice will always be your voice, but works can be quite different from one to another