Silent, falling drops
Land inside my broken heart,
Leaving tiny holes.
I would not love you
For I hold my soul with pride.
You try to kill me.
Practice makes silence,
And silence makes morning light.
Morning light brings death.
Small, green follower
Making a trail of its own
Slowly through the air.
An orb of rainbow
Floats through the hot, humid air,
And its life explodes.
Brittle flaky life
Scrapes away and now it dies.
But I will not mourn.
Fragile porcelain
Tiny hands with a message
Break my wounded heart.
Soft, quiet sunlight
Filters into my lost soul
And gives me repose.
I yawn
but the muse pulls on my hand.
I close my eyes just to rest them
And wake to find the muse in my lap.
Reluctantly,
I follow her outside
And admit that she was right
When we dance at sunrise.
Poetry has become cool.
Like everything else pure, and perfect,
Poetry has been corrupted and commercialized
To the point where it is
no longer poetry,
But a
jumbleofrhymingwords.
People do not seem to realize
That true poetry
Is meant to evoke emotions,
Or to convey ideas or feelings.
Poetry comes from the heart
More than the mind.
And I often read 'poems'
And I hear them in my mind,
But I do not hear them in my heart.
*It was so deep and before its time......
