It is not easily confessed
how you can state your case
and the words sound so distressed
jumbled upon a pile of emotion
my tongue became twisted
and knotted with each commotion
I wanted to seize a truce of silent
kicking and screaming
I became this tyrant
I see how easily things get misconstrued
but after combating and bruised
we came out with the same attitude
streaming glow lights
around the tree,
the crumbling forest limbs
gasping at the sight of these veiled ghosts
I see in the distance
I want to run and hide
I want to cut my own heart out
so I won’t feel
so deep are these aches
and listless entanglements of a dreary folly
murder me
and again
all this wasteland on fire to my fruitless imagery
that lingers on my tongue
I will deny who I wrote this for,
when death slowly creeps at my door
… then I reverted to infinitely subtle, no dazzling tints to a fancy wardrobe. I collected my thoughts, and hung them each one on the clothes line outside, to waft in and out of all my dizzy spells, or the wind that blows you right up from your anchorage.
Thank you, J. 😉
I’m not the one
you write pretty
poetry for
I am the one
you slam metaphors
between your teeth
knot and twist
in your mouth
from a tongue
screaming out fragments
that will leave you numb
feeling the beauty of skin
and unhinging
a locked cathedral
to taste a little part
of my sin
Emma B. Wolfe
(originally posted on Mydizzypoetry)
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About Emma B. Wolfe- I was on my way to the nunnery, my mother was so proud of me until I told her I wanted to be a writer. Writing can almost be my parliament of atonement, as I touched my cheek to the cold marble lying on the floor, I could not talk about the winter without bending or breaking like discussing war between my brittle bones and death. I knew I was destined to…
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the breath of the fields
wait for solidarity
and in unison
in sunny silence
this distance becomes
the pulse of time
the fragrance
of all my desire
will remain for him
if for a century
and then, I was trapped
bracing myself against
the ever winding jaws, wrapped
my erring feet
could not move
through the wayward mode of out
only to stumble and muse
my twisted self with doubt
my face was full of shadow
I clamored into the hollow
and rested onto the shallow
the voice with such coaxing inflections
ignorance is bliss
with my reminiscent selections
I sigh deeply
waiting for
my silence to break
my tongue
as dry as this desert becomes
of perched vultures
creeping against my skin
where there are people
I gather their gazes
of importance to less tolerable
and put them in categories
of evanescent shades of feeling
a collision set on high
with fragments
I bite my sentences in half
of a once fugitive love
desperately waning
by days, by nights, by moons
where only I knew each shade of blue
that had coursed my lungs
