Bright page under-lights,
Skin beneath my face,
I space, thinking of the chase,
To snare the catch,
Rifled shot, ringing in my brain,
Beastly words gushing from the vein,
Beating through fingertips,
Bleed spoils of my bother,
Spurting black, eyes wide, I hover.
I’ll admit, I’m a pretty one dimensional poet. I love rhymes and I don’t really deviate. I would like to change that – justify my attachment of the word poet, above – and in time, diversify.
I’m consistently unsurprised by the limited scope of my knowledge and talents.
I write my poems with layman’s fingers – they’re the same ones I use to scratch my head in confusion, and assertively push slices of pizza, oozing molten cheese, into my greedy gullet. If professionals become proficient at their craft through the compounding of experiences, the burnt roof of my mouth is evidence against my standing.
Here lies (above), my take on the creative process.
Original poem by © Darius the Mate
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Exploring mental and physical