Nov 27
Have you stopped to embrace the tick tock
of your heart?
Do you give thanks for each day
you get to sip your coffee
and board the train?
I still tap-tap the keys of a sticky, untidy laptop,
a messed-up mind.
I speak of bouts of unrequited love
and mental illness
in hushed tones
in baritones
like throwing stones into the ocean
hoping they will float
not sink
into obscurity.
But you write with a poisoned pen
and I feel the hate oozing from the pores
and the core of your being.
Hate is not unlike love in reverse.
And poison does not always come with
an antidote.
How is it that you and I see truth
in polar different shades of grey?
And does Poetry sit alone in the sidelines
trying to find the syllables
to ward of the insignificance
of words unspoken
and dried up ink?
If I can add a thought or two
might it be to interject
that Poetry Does Matter.
© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.
