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Thumbprints
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I am tired of poetry, tired that it collects it's thoughts, broadcasts a message for all those who take the chance to read and understand.
I am tired of poetry, of believing that words lay discarded upon a table,
waiting for someone to read the heart,
Scribbling unto another, a future other, a past other, a dark cap of noticing another.
I am weary of poetry,
what has these words done to make us feel? What has any words made us feel, except to write more words, more vowels, more syllables, retreated sentences forming, what, causility paragraphs.
Continuance, and endless forgetting?
I have grown to hate these casual fingers, typing these unneeded fingerpoints. Viewed words, typed words, written words, words, words, words.
Words are not peace,
words are not justice,
words cannot satisfy,
words complicate communication.
But all I have is tired poetry,
All I have are words,
I wish the words I view,
were gathered in abeyance
of my view.
Tired poetry,
if the term is sound,
tired poetry still let's me down.
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081127
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