The answers in the trail mix
drove me on home,
As I spoke a poem
to my microphone.
It doesn't quite flow
and loses its glow.
It's not got the feel
of pen hitting paper.
Nor the clickety clack...
that type of writer.
My voice echoes too loud
as I speak onto this page.
I announce punctuation...
dot dot dot...
that dictation...
Increases my awareness
Of my awkwardness.
Takes me straight out of where poetry lives. Cuz in my head those words wander real loud, and they run to the paper,
yet as I speak them aloud;
unfiltered, it feels
like a fabricated robotic monotony
of written dis-ease.
All that which does not please.
Feels as if I am violating my words,
taking away their privacy
and their right to be written
Before they are spoken.
For somewhere between
my voice and the screen
that place where pen meets paper
Or clickety clack of the typewriter...
A space where I meet my maker,
the words lose their eloquence,
elegance and power
.
This verbal stream of consciousness is just not so beautiful a mess
and the words aren't as they should be,
cuz I got that dialect that ain't quite right.
But I've been listening to
The answers in the trail mix
getting my fix.
I was taught to call a spade a spade
but but but
Can't know a Spade if I don't know hearts.
Two games, same coin.
That duality.
So as I scramble ramble
verbalize and drive
probably watch the sun rise
.
I got a slew of thoughts
as i watch this half moon
guide me out of town.
For once I left that damn place
and I felt of sound mind,
clear head space
.
Peace creeped up on me
when I least expected it.
And I couldn't tell you
why or how or when or where
all I know is
I've been asking God for quite some time now to take over and drive this vessel
that is me and let me just be.
Let my feet Hit the dirt,
Stub my toes on the pavement,
when it's time for me to slow down.
I look around and take it all in.
Forward, my feet lead the way
and I listen a little bit better than I used to
...I think.
I'm told that thinking will get me
nothing but trouble.
And I can't trust anyone at all
most certainly not myself.
It's been proven to be true
that the biggest lies aren't told by others they're the ones I tell me.
They origami unfold in front of me and maybe one day
what once was a flying crane...
Now bent, disheveled paper,
Rough and worn,
That pristine sheen of a blank slate ...
long ago tarnished.
Once I've dissected and
unfolded all those layers and lies
then I can properly put them back in place and create a phoenix.
I can read your words all day long and fall in love with them,
but it's only when I hear your voice
that I actually hear what I read
and see what I heard
and what a beautiful thing
that leaves me with...
and damn I write so much better than I speak
and maybe it's just the sound of my voice
Echoing in my ears
it slows me down
stumbles me over self-doubt and straight out of the present moment.
Cuz i met this guy or I met his words.
And if all I've got is my word I better use it wisely or so I'm told,
and I wonder if he uses his words wisely
And the frustration of not knowing how bad you probably will hurt me only makes me want it more
.
I will be the death of me if it's the last thing I do
.
I watched two people love each other all wrong today.
And my heart broke
as I spoke and I tamed my words.
Trying to not match their anger,
rage...
Emanating from them both.
Triple time working on shielding me,
So I could hold onto a bit to give them.
love.
If not them at least the lil ones.
And I
should probably listen
more than I speak.
Sometimes I do,
Many times I don't
Can't or won't.
It's the innocents,
the little ones with clean slates-
Watching em get scratched as the
Scarring and conditioning begins...
Sends me to....
Spaces where the words would never fit.
So I hit the gas, drive fast...
listening to answers in the trail mix.
getting my poetry fix...
holding on to pieces of that elusive...
...peace...

S.O.C.K.S.


© fire_tamed_dame