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THE TRUTHS WE ARE TOLD
Between the healing exclamations from loved ones and the whirling whispers of those who would rather us gone, there is a sweet spot: a place that only what we remind ourselves to remember, exists. And Poetry is no exception.
a white mirror There has been almost a silence within If you discount the echoes and the taunts In a declaration to myself to keep whole this year I found myself collecting up parts of me At each turn a piece of the writer you all knew With rhymes, and word pictures With eloquence and immeasurable bravery To be intrepid with the pen Or a warrior with the keyboard Typing faster than ever Spilling out thoughts from the most sacred coves within And that was instrumentally my single fault If I were to critique my own I would say it lacked poise and leaked contempt in every page If I were to disown any in its contents I would disown the whole in its entirety It was as if looking into a mirror after much time Seeing the wrinkles and their lair Seeing the uniform and its stains I stripped myself bare yet kept hold to it all And in letters to myself it was as if I misspelled words The voice was as if a whisper under the roar of things thought No surprise that you knew of all I loved yet nothing of what I truly lost Volume one was nothing but that, a volume, A book forming part of a work or series A perception of loudness in which intensity is measured Keywords being perception and part. And so, in that time I have found new challenges to unearth I have much more of me to present and from a vantage that can not be numbered just yet Therefore, I ask for your attention I ask for you to dig a little deeper this time Not to just understand all that I write But to feel all that I feel Before you can see behind the pixels I must set the scene I must lay the foundation May I be frank with you? Be open and be honest, be inquisitive and be true? May I reveal to you both emotionally and physically where I have been? May I shine a more consistent light on matters that matter most? I have become accustomed to prosing through topics and fear I don’t linger long enough to capture them This is the middle-ground The space where my passion meets its destiny This is not number two, although in its reality, it is This is something I’ve been meaning to say But each time the sentiments eluded me This is a distinction between what it was and what we all know it to be This is “The Truth about Poetry”.
Another Fly On The Wall 