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Crooked Fingers

My own crooked fingers,
Painting words and truths,
Guiding them from a scarred and broken mind,
Onto paper where they can,
Breathe,
And either thrive on creative inspiration,
Or wither away dehydrated from not enough words,
Or float away bloated from too many shallow phrases,
In a sea of false starts,
And black and white,
And confusing truths that make no sense,
But form stanzas and verses nevertheless,
Where does the writer fit into the puzzle?
Are we observers?
Are we just people watching life unfurl around our sorry faces,
Daring to create some meaning,
From nothing,
Or,
Are we just people,
Slowly falling through the cracks,
With nobody to catch us before we hit the ground.

Poetry



Makes Us












Bleed.





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maRAWR This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
May 5, 2010 at 2:37 pm
love it! but i think that poetry makes us bleed in the same way doctors used to use leeches to remove illness from patients.  whether it helps or makes one more sick just depends on the individual person and their case.
 
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