These iris blades and things I pen
both maintain a sharp point; a realm
of disenchantment and disheartened
encounters where one’s soul-self
is embedded between the lines. A
question of my character stands
on end, and I’ve no strength
left to defend. Take my eggshell
house and paint your hubris
walls with the color of egg-matte ache.
I’ve loved and lived and laughed
and penned it exactly that way.
What is a poem? What are these words?
And all they contain?
I am the poem. I am the literary ache.
I am self-maintained chaos,
combustible tears, and pliable
flesh for looters to take. It’s
okay. At the end of the day
I have this—
this empty page
and all the vivid imagery
it contains. My favorite iris
is in bloom. And this season
has come and gone
all too soon.
Poetry Month continues, and this is Day 15 of NaPoWriMo for me. Today’s prompt was to write a poem that addresses itself in some way.
30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.
Love and Ink,