Smudges of ink and mud.

The wind whispers secrets from across the oceans. Percolating to my roots,

A lover’s spat, giggling teens, a war and squeaky babies,

Casual banter, alcohol, hash, I’ve seen them fighting with shadows,

Convincing they’re worth following;

Hands clutching bottle mouths like edges of stars,

Sunshine, teeth, comets and blood;

Dew drops, acid, tears and sweat,

I’m not meant for salt, his least favorite word is pansy, he doesn’t mind gay,

Hers is almost;

Poetry, prose, fiction, honey, butterflies and scissors,

Axe, dogs and men and trampled upon, spattered;

With mud and paint, I’ve known it all;

Jumbled thoughts, I hide behind metaphors,

Music, beats and rhythmic sobs.

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Author:

I've been writing poetry since I was a kid and my poetry is without fail a description of things that matter, to me. I pretend to not like love poetry. I have an insane love for popcorn!

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