“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Thursday, March 17, 2016
You again
Why would you be
looking here
when you should be
looking
somewhere else
There you go again
anywhere
but furthermore
and curiosity does not
have nine chances
to land on a point
where you find
yourself
here
again
Still
stop wasting another line
It will always be here
nevermore
than at its worst
a waste of-
a treasure of-
private epiphany
helium to some.
Anyway, today is the day
you stop.
And now
it is an insult
to see you watching these words
fly away-
don't check-
yet-
they lie
unrecognizable by eyes
other than yours
How you can see
not all the words are empty-
but half full-
of themselves,
it is beyond further explanation.
You know what I would say.
Image By Internet Archive Book Images, described as Life of James McNeill [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
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