|
Menu
|
|
|
Social
|
|
|
|
Articles/Stories Administration
|
|
Edit Poem
Editing Instructions
Please note in the NOTES textbox below that this poem has been edited, do
not put your name, please put as the following: <!--EDITED by moderators
on (Date) for (reasons).--> DO NOT remove the line break (
<br /> ) html coding at the end of each line break, these are
needed to form the correct lines. THE CHEATIf you do not wish to
delete a poem, or a certain part of a poem, and instead would like to send the
url to Mick via PM for confirmation, enclose the entire poem (or part/s thereof)
between <!-- and -->
(ie. <!-- POEM TEXT HERE
-->). This will still save the text, but will make it invisible from
viewing (other than page source view). You could also add before the
<!-- something to the effect of "This Poem under review".
Parallel play
It takes a writer to see what it has become.
Not a poet with a sense of life.
A drunk would do a better job, they usually do.
Why do you never see anything?
In my world love is a pop song and passion is excruciating.
Write truly and live a lie. That’s the only way.
I feel the strange need to feel fragile. Poems are solid.
Bars of gold, trees, swords. Thought is air.
Only speak when annoyed. Only love when forced.
I too am troubled, therefore a writer.
Never the other way around.
With every book death opens itself up in my lap.
With every poem a butterfly dies.
And the leaves fall down once again.
He has never been solid. Listens, waits for his turn.
Sits beside me. A correction, red line, under every word of our story.
It is easy though. Ball it up and toss it. Start again.
Make a remix of everything forgotten.
Proze. Short stories. Old and cliché.
Some good stuff but only a few.
We are a floor full of paper.
Light it up for once and for all.
Hoarding memories.
Different stories, never intertwined.
Parallel play.
I should clean up this mess.
|
|
|
|
|