A dabbler, a story teller.
Were there words in the spaces? Smoke signals sent from a Player’s Light. Drifting, Swirling, Before dissipating. And inhaled whole
By Kristen Haveman3 years ago in Poets
A flush rises red, From toes to cheeks, roses spread. A parting from self, into waves of warmth, washing, cresting, casting free from dread.
If I sit still And fill the cracks Build up my bones I’ll not collapse Feelings churned And emotions ground Stir the spackle
In my wake The murder flew Wings of thought Torturous tattoo Some mistake From darkness grew Dreams I sought Flutter into view
Children chivied, chastened, censured. Character corruption, causing chaos.
Willows weep, When wind's whine, Watching, wailing, waiting… Whilst whores worship wanton words, Welcome winter's war.
In my house of cards I wait for the wind to blow WHOOSH — they all fall down
A flawed being Inside an imperfect shell Always hiding, never seeing She straddles a line twixt heaven and hell Curves and scars, a voluptuous terrain
A world above, a world below. I dare not touch, Break the flow. A glimpse upon a silent land My ashen face Features bland
I once wrote a limerick about life But all it ever gave me was strife Rhyming is hard Guess I’m no bard My wit’s sharp like a butter-knife.
Like summer skies stretching clear and crisp, and ocean depths shielding secrets. Aster buds, hidden beauty, singing jays swift to wing.
Once a bird sat up on a spire. He liked to boast none could fly higher. With the view of God, back off, he cawed. Or I’ll spread your gossip like fire.
