Categories
Poetry

Buried at birth

I am beginning to feel the pangs of being

Some painting one is ashamed of

and keeps facing the wall

In a basement storage room,

The stench of mildew intensifying

With every day that I sit here.

Y’know, I don’t mind so much.

After all, it is terribly amusing, I must say

To be meant for display,

Yet to function as an absorber of musty air

And only be viewed

By a visitor or two.

Is this how it was meant to be?

Perhaps, admiration in sunlit rooms

Never even was; maybe this, this darkness,

Is the only beauty to be had

In a world of unbearability.

Categories
Poetry Thoughts and Entries

What is a drawing, other than the end of a line?

Draw me out, with brittle charcoal and whittled pencil

Onto whatever surface you can find.

After all, don’t I look better on paper

Than under those merciless rays that overwhelm the outdoors?

Where the external is viewed in however many angles,

And the reflected light is equal parts piercing and protective?

Here, my veins aren’t visible; you don’t see a single pimple or stray strand

Or even what the outline of my face looks like.

Here, in a line or two, the internal is traced, a strand of genotype that was never expressed.

Right, left, right, left, right, and then left again;

Though a dimension is lacking, it is almost easier to get lost.