“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, May 22, 2016
The value of a thoughtful penny
One.
Few to none will tell me
the ultimate futility
of poetry
although
I already know
how few
understand
(me).
Many people prefer a pretty penny
over poverty, and honestly, I see
and I confess, I do too-possess
a weakness for copper-colored
tokens of superfluous luck.
Wasting her life, living away-
not even a wife-
she has nothing to say
what is writing worth-anyway?
Stark raving mad
I was with an out-of-shape-will
ill-fit to my unforgiving form,
with my soul squeezing out
the loosely knit seams-
suicidal skill without
a word threaded to-gether
And whether given a choice
when you've known
what should you do
I ask this task
of justice too...
Two.
Just know it means nothing
of value
if one values no-thing
without copper coated
currency.
Image By Daniel Schwen (Own work) [Public domain or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
White
Unopened mail on the counter, a meal half eaten sits on the table, fork frozen in position of the last bite. A world abandoned mid-sentence,...
-
Natures touch is both gentle and fierce. Homo sapiens trample on her back. The thick skin impossible to pierce. So...
-
A year ago this May, in fact, upon this same very grey day- something came over me I found could say, in no other way but to portray, ...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...

No comments:
Post a Comment