Poetry

The glow of a distant city beneath a desert sky full of stars.

i am the words i speak, i’m the things i do, i’m not how i look, or the things i accrue. you try to define me with the simplest of words but i’m far beyond that, though you think it absurd.

[continue]. . .

A small, pink flower grows up between the unfinished, wood planks of a home deck.

I flay myself
on the altar of art,
cut down to the bone,
break every last part.

I write it on paper,
type it into my phone,
share it with the world,
and feel utterly alone.

[continue]. . .

Two ladybugs, one in flight and the other sitting on the stem of an orange spring flower. An artistic macro image with a blue background containing more, out-of-focus flowers.

A poem is not found
in an abundance of words.
Nor is it unnecessarily complex.
Poetry is found in the heart
and in the connection it makes.

[continue]. . .