Thursday, March 3, 2011
I’m tired – as though I sound the same. I’d
change, but I can’t direct the wind; my heart beats
in iambic pentameter. The rhythm that I write with is
the rhythm that I breathe with is the rhythm that
I nod myself to sleep with.
So I, changeless, watch my words;
and wonder if the pulsing of my heart will win this one.
If the strings will loosen their grip, change might escape
these lips; to produce something beautiful, or
something worth it, or maybe, if I’m lucky: something
hearts on paper