I am Weekly Poetry I am not my mother Lost in the shadow of her own tears Playing complacently with The dishes in the sink Waiting for the moment To escape her own grief I am not my father Laughing at the misery of degradation Pretending the day and Calling it condemnation A stone filled heart Consumed in self preservation I am myself, But Who can this be? If Not called Liberty What then shall I call this little piece of me? I am what I think What I believe Yet the writer bellows Who dares call himself poet? The scribe at lifes dictation Pins the artist to her canvas Has anyone seen What is known and still unknown? Is the desk filled with life Or does it remain in a mass of clutter? I am that space Between Light and love The nucleus of fragmented thought I am that which is above and below The color of a stained black window upon a white facade Graffitiing words One house at a time Opening each fence One day at a time I am dreaming that far away believing Weaving a story For that one person Who still knows The world is a magical place Like a child at play Dancing around with Love, joy and beauty I am that The dream and the dreamer I am me.
Posted on: Wed, 31 Dec 2014 15:17:28 +0000
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