when the world speaks to you in poetry

May 31, 2010 Posted by the writer

a foggy dusk of what and was

His whistle.
Threw my branches.
Far from the tree.
Where I belong.
And I remember how the wind tasted.
Queensland winter prick.
Where people start to phone in sick.
I called to let you know.
I haven’t been feeling well lately.
There is no skin on my knees.
Left to be torn.
Purple kneecap scars.
Replace what doesn’t seem far.
When (day) becomes (night)…
The day
You called me

interrupted viewing of your favorite channel

I become familiar with the comfort.
But. It is a different kind than you thought.
Like I was looking for a last resort.
My wrist is tagged, I was eagerly bought.
Purchased for the pleasure of stand beside.
A little to the left, just not so high.
Soft corner shadows for me to reside.
When living feels like learning to defy.
An overlooked state of naturally locked.
Herbs in my pocket. Crystal necklaces.
Swallowing spells that tell why you feel blocked.
Roses consume thorns weaving my trellis.
Balancing scales with a handful of tools.
Recording direction inside word pools.

About the writer

gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

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