I’ve always felt like poetry is magic to me
— something different
— something real.
if I was asked if I participate in anything I have no idea of I,
I’d say I indulge occasionally in a sort of unkindly —
sometimes I find the only way out is through someone else’s words.
I’m sad that I’ve gotten so used to my own world
and I am terrified the feeling of home isn’t the same anymore.
Instead, I feel “this seems quite familiar to me” and the feeling of anything new would be long gone.
So I live vicariously in western lands in Victorian ghosttowns the cape and occasionally Boston. Even the lost ones the old towns of Wyoming.
I frequent the neeer London which also appears worn down. Seems satiatied- with itself.
I shan’t complain
I am a traveler of the town, when I’m there
I one of them now. I comply.
I am something new.
I’m unacquainted with it.
The worlds,
the other worlds are as real to me as they make them. Like the ones I created- except, the way the air tastes- I’ve come to find that the air, like the water, must also be something sweet of divine. We mustn’t fear because it’s there and it’s the only thing that matters insidiously. It breathes you and me in differently.
We are blind to it, naturally.
So if they ask me why I live for poetry. I am a poet, a small part of me must capture what the world could be
I’ve spun a world of crimson hydrangeas and oceans that move to the salacious sway of lilies. Because we rest our beloved heads in hell that we weren’t ever meant to touch, but we worship
For the life of me
These holy books heals me
I don’t know like you, what is mixed in but I merely find it pure
Melancholy finds me healing
in sweet poetry
