Something Hidden
He with his calm exterior
Pleases the one with the fire
But hand hits thigh
Composure is lost
Just for a fleeting moment
The ire bridled
Can but no longer be hidden
The strain holds the nerves taut
The grinding teeth
Furrowed brow
Need to relax
Break free
Let go those words
Before the bitterness bursts within
And the bolt that holds you tight
Is lost
posted by BionicScribe @ 11:30 pm
5 comments
5 Comments:
Dude, you are India's answer to Neruda. You are Ginsberg reincarnated. You are my Garcia Lorca. Now sample this:
"Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me."
Now this is what I call poetry. Now, what you write is toxic sludge. Pleas refrain:)
To each his own...
Bionic scribe,
you write
as I did before,
a fish out of water
asphxiating on the shore.
Misery used to be me,
until I met irony..
Now, I wish thee happiness
with her highness
melancholy.
To each his own...
Bionic scribe,
you write
as I did before;
a fish out of water
asphyxiating on the shore.
Misery used to be me,
until I met irony.
Now I wish thee
happiness
with her highness,
melancholy.
To each his own
Bionic scribe,
you write
as I did before;
a fish out of water
asphyxiating on the shore.
Misery used to be me,
until I met irony.
Now I wish thee
happiness
with her highness,
melancholy.
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