Why the sad spiral into confused hopelessness?
Poems are hard. Because humans write them.
Poems are far. We don’t see that far.
We aren’t used to.
Not in our regular lives we see that far.
It’s knowing someone, deeply. Something. An unquenching deep abyss.
Poems penetrate the soul.
The soul: defiled into a cliche.
It belongs to the poet and no one else. I am not one of them.
Should poems always have difficult words?
Why can’t they be easy?
they can’t be helped
the words aren’t put there
they are the only words that come
the words in depth, thawing, laying, almost dying.
The poet:
I don’t intend emotions upon you.
I just bare it all for you,
I cannot write you a story about vampires.
They are never truly for anyone, poems.
All those that say they write for themselves, the prose people: they lie.
They care too much about you for that.
Poets don’t care. They will destroy themselves in the depth of seeing.
It’s not meant to be hard, the poem.
You may be repelled everytime you read one – why visit when you can’t stay?
Stay or not, please don’t snicker and spit.
I don’t ask this for me, but for those that write their deepest, their everything.
Don’t soil the souls. It’s all we have left of a whole heart.
Meditations 