My Poetry is Living

Well.. to be fair, this is not a travel post, but I had stated this blog would be about all the mis/adventures and thoughts I come upon during the day to day life I lead. I have been piecing together parcels of words in my head lately, but nothing solid enough to take a corporeal form. I’ve looked back on this poem since it was written two months ago, and though it could use some enhancing or editing, I like it for what it is. I have an obsession with quotes, be they travel, love, inspiration, or otherwise, and one in particular hit me.

iterI suppose I thought of the years of journals stacked and gathering dust in my childhood bedroom closet…. of the many notes and letters exchanged with friends that I have kept… of the many friends, events, and loves I have had that are gone now, but frozen in my words. This poem came from the dredges, and I must say, it tells exactly the story I want it to.

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

As I finger the aged script of discarded pens, I know this to be true.

They say you don’t know the beauty of a moment until it becomes a memory.

I believe this isn’t so, as I witness and encapsulate these moments for all time.

The head-space may get foggy,

And dust will settle over the details that slip away,

Like boxes packed in the attic.

Still, nothing dulls the feelings they etched in my heart.

It is so tragic,

So beautiful,

So endlessly bittersweet,

As only a writer might see.

In truth, these memories lay nameless,

But they mean everything to me.

When my hand found yours in the darkness,

The silence warm and still,

A slow smile crept across my lips to learn,

Oh, how the heart can fill.

I knew you would fit in my pages, your skin like living poetry,

All curves and commas and exclamation marks,

The complicated exquisiteness of you.

You are prose,

Words without borders,

Fingerless braille and meandering trails of lust and inspiration.

My chin found your chest and I imagined us as puzzle pieces, finally put together at last.

How easy it is to forget the sweetness, the deep sigh that comes from the embrace of a lovers arms.

It could last an instant, or a lifetime, but the writer knows better;

Sinks deep and exists within a moment.

My poetry is living,

Long after these things have died.

What may have had names, dates, and lay in the realm of fact

Is now a series of stories.

Of feelings trapped in lines.

There have been deleted phone numbers,

Marriages,

Flights abroad that never came back.

Lives continuing along beyond the trails etched by my pen.

People who cross paths wordlessly every now and then.

I wonder if other poets are like me,

So atune to the sounds of the heart,

Yet hopelessly dumb when it comes to the vocal part.

I can move my pen and let it put down all thats in my head,

But caught in physical moments I cannot say what must be said.

My words are always the afterthought,

And I write as I know no other way,

Like to tell you that you were different,

And I should have asked you to stay.

The enduring constant is myself,

The reinvented soul,

through artistic evolution,

I write about what I know.

Sometimes knowledge seems boundless, and all I do is grow.

At other times I pen a line,

And don’t know where to go.

Each story often ends in a period, though I prefer a question mark,

I wondered how this one would be written,

As we lay there in the dark.

For now I flip through my pages,

Still skimming haplessly,

Looking for old secrets,

Rediscovering what could be.

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

My poetry is living.

My poetry is why.

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2 Comments Add yours

  1. eonserotica says:

    Beautiful sentiments. Clicked through to here from a similar post over on The Renegade Press, and I’m glad I did.

    Like

    1. ohshetravels says:

      Thanks! I’d love to share my thoughts with more people (wouldn’t we all?) I love RP and saw the first line of his work today and though, man! I was inspired by the same thing last year!

      Like

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