“If we took all the poets and banded them together. Could problems arise or self-solve?”
Lyricists to our own plights…Could prose set a tilted world right?
“What of my yet undocumented pain? Would my own words make me sane?”
‘It is always something’…I heard a philosophical schizophrenic say.
“What if we all banded together today?”
Through a lens,
nothing but a small town voyeur.
An inclement, practitioner, seeking a cure.
If raw or edgy could suffice.
I suppose there would be a way to sleep away the night.
Indeed it is the dark side of an allergy that watches for more.
Mine is not a sexual exercise.
Mine is being witness to the other side.
The broken down by time.
Mine is baring witness to unwritten signs.
From penned infancy to disorganized adulthood
I have tried to put into words dribble and hymn.
And, all the many, many, skeletons of wondering that took place.
I tried to put into words
she did for me
when I felt misinformed on my solitary imaging.
My, my, my androgeny.
Her denim coerced all the slayings of the normal sects.
Pastel black or white.
Soon became black and white pastels with retrospect.