Most poets
have notepads,
I have graves,
where tales
of dead thoughts lay.
My words
only see the light of day,
after hours spent digging out
the remains.
Then I sit beside
the graveside
shooing
the shadows away.
Most poets use paper,
I have word vapour
dripping
over my hands,
I use it to scrawl
out my lines
as quick as I can,
and as it dries
like glue on the skin,
I pick at the pieces
sticking the best words back in.
Most poets carry a pen,
I carry a universe
of thoughts in my head.
I carry stories
in a backpack,
hanging over
my sagging shoulders,
verses falling
from where
the zip stuck tight.
I carry the night,
as the moon guides
my hand to write.
A backseat driver on life.
A best friend in moments of strife.
Most poets carry a notepad,
delicately scrawled
with the lines
they find.
I have the earth,
every street corner,
Every flower growing
from the dirt.
I have the sound of love
reverberating through my ears,
down to my heart.
I have the sight of beauty
burned into my eyes,
and I also have a notepad
filled with scrawled lines.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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