Geladrial

I mulled it over As I sat in front of some paper, How is a poem constructed? I wondered with a pen in hand, My hand? No your hand, A hand that I held, Squeezing your dead fingers together, To hold the slippery ballpoint, I thought you would snore when you died, But I guess it was something you only did in sleep, Your feet I wear as shoes, I wrap around my feet, BOOTS BOOTS, You don't love me anymore, The blood that pumped for me has drained, Burying is a thing of the past, We live in our dead now, I'm rotting like you, But before I do I mulled it over, And sat in front of some paper, To write a poem… With your hand.

I'm writing a poem Because I feel that I should I'm not sure why I think I feel bound Bound by this consuming need to Create I think we are all bound In this catch 22 Of creativity The more we give in In – to this creativity The more we need to create Is it because it is the only way to control Is the world too hectic? Is that why we need to write And paint And draw Or is it something that we're born with A mystical element to our human soul A need A want to create To explore this depth of our mind Imaginations and thought I write a poem Because the instinct is too strong Would I go mad is I suppressed it If you su

You are no longer human - you are an 'it' an 'it' for me to explore, an 'it' like a 'thing and a what' you are a fascinating 'it' and I stare                  watching you - the 'it' lying naturally on my white landscapes, I watch the barrel and imagine how the two balloons, two balloons inflate and deflate, causing you - 'it' - to move in a harmony, and I imagine your paper Valentine flutter with apprehension, loving the golden atmosphere that keeps it living, your meat-sticks grope at the bowls of fat that wobble, wibble. Iced with round dangerous tips. Grope again 'it' it makes you fall in love with imaginary - imaginary ele

Oh! Those screams in the depth of the night, they do nothing but shake the nerves and pierce the drums of the ears, my heritage, my country, I worked so hard for that scrap of land, between the two tall, stony buildings. They're rubble now. Buildings toppled reminders of an ancient empire... before the greed. Aeroplanes continue to scream and we hold each other in a desperate attempt to shield our lives from the machines, the whole country holds it's breath, and then we exhale, tenderly, teasing the sun to raise and the pale fingers of dawn scratch away the night like a woman buried alive. The last few fragmen