Poetry is a complicated thing of which I dare not claim to be a part.
That being said, just like the common butcher, taxi driver, flowerist, nutjob and so on, I like to play poet now and then.
This is a book, of sorts, a book on the works.
Maybe it will be finished one day, so there will be a words 2, also perhaps that day may never come.
Here's my attempt at registering some of my writings as they are being written.
Keep in mind, dear reader, these are not poems.
These are just words.
you are the warm steam coming out of a morning tea mug
you are the best night's sleep I could possibly have
you are the sun caressing my skin on a gentle summer walk
you are the cat napping in my neighbour's front yard
you are the expected train arriving just in time
you are the window seat that has just been left behind
you are the quiet murmurs of a crowd in slumber
you are the small sleeve holes that exist in my jumper
you are the rhythm my steps like to play on and
my efforts not to let them
you are my most cherished welcome
you are my hardest goodbye
you are my favourite curse
my dearest maze
you are my favourite place in town
it's all about that monster-like,
hellish-type, velvet-folded charm
that moves me back and forth,
dragging me across the floor
as if it wanted to take me somewhere
but wasn't sure exactly
where it wants to go
and then the rage-be-fuel
for wicked scrutiny,
the slicing of the unity
in front of mirrored walls
blobby images and
vulnerable weaknesses
whenever cloth dares fall
so intrinsically stationed,
such a part of my nature
that my memory forgot
if I ever knew the place
of where it all came from
two men would be
caged being fed
feces
and one would still
find light in his eye
to inquiry why
his companions has
a meatier texture
than his