I seek hoping to find,
the answers elusively
dodging about my mind.
The purpose of words fitting eloquently
together in lines
to form note-less music,
sound captured in rhyme.
Poetry.
That’s what they call it.
It’s what I aim for,
hoping it’s not squalid,
inferior, dressed down, drowning
in the ego,
an ocean I’ve explored depths of.
Darkness,
Reaching all around and clawing
at the eyes and arteries of my scrawling –
Heart;
it’s what I want to beat loudly
and proudly
at the ink that’s been spilled.
Not wasted.
Not smeared out in vain.
Doubt,
is only weakness infecting the brain
of an artist
who’s afraid to say her own name.
But I pray,
I work hard,
to manifest my soul out on the page.
Thoughts inscribed on the flesh of flora
now deceased,
delicately tattooed dreams and miseries.
Don’t let their sacrifice have been for naught.
Leaves can still breathe,
even once their pages.
+ K +
Originally written on 5/28/14.
Sweet Tea & Heresy 