I
don't think I posses the words
for
my insights
which
i see so clearly within
As
i wrench globules of life into comprehension, soil and roots swing and flick
obscurity
consistently
I
wreak desperation down upon myself
Anguish
and frustration are more than the words
of
the perishable and unnatural
I
know that I am missing
That
my lens is foggy
These
longings for what i am
missing
in
my uttering
are
so homely
As
primal as the lurch of fear drawing near
Art
dwells and exists like an absent birds nest
and
it
finds its existence in my incomplete lunges for the changing chasm,
My
verbal groaning scratches fondly for its source.
(this poem has a seemingly obscure title. It was written as i sat opposite a community support officer on the train. i began to write about this 'other' as though i was them and realised i conveniently projected my own versions, safe labels onto that person opposite me - so i wrote this poem instead - perhaps these were her thoughts after all)
