I wrapped sentences so tightly
their tension became my tendons.
My commas stretched into bone;
my hyphens into the length of my spine.
The adventurer slipped into my fingertips-
the lover into my chest
the dreamer flooded my skull.
Quotations faded into muscle and
the freak found my limbs to be home.
The pencil works best not on paper
but rather on flesh and skin,
poets aren't made to write poetry...
rather poems are made to write them.
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Author:
Kinsey Peterson (
Offline) - Published: January 30th, 2023 09:24
- Comment from author about the poem: Sometimes I'm convinced my heart beats ink instead of blood.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek, Ash :), Rocky Lagou, Alan R
Offline)
Comments6
You captured what it is to write so perfectly I couldn't have said it better!
Spontaneous overflow of powerful emotions that leave your mind so cold that no fire can ever warm it ........I read that's what poetry is.
Now after reading your poem i can say that it happens to the poets too.
So true Joan, words are always within us.
Andy
It is a wonderful piece , I have a hunch you are a medical student overwhelmed by words..
Interesting guess, I am actually an aspiring history major still in high school.
I do so agree
oft
I find myself typing away
and only realise what i've written
after i read it back
which is in line with your insightful
wording
'poets aren't made to write poetry...
rather poems are made to write them.'
how acute, dear Poet
'our words, ink us alive'
thanks for sharing, forgive my tardiness
Does it matter the timeline of sincerity? Thank you L.B.
HOLY SHITTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
NOBEL PRIZE-WORTHY
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