I have never considered myself a poet. Perhaps I had an image of an artsy, emotion-fueled avant garde whose main occupation was spilling syrup or angst onto the page. Perhaps it was just my lack of confidence that made me proclaim, “I can’t write poetry.”
Well, I have amended my views on the subject. Poetry, it seems, is more accessible than I had previously thought. It doesn’t hurt to put words together in shorter, more lyrical ways than straight prose. Don’t get me wrong… prose is still my greatest love.
But poetry works. Sometimes, poetry is all that can get the point across.
Every new thing
a golden ooze
spills slow over the dried up shells
Every new phase
the trickle down
covers the old, the dry, the over,
the deep vein wells
with new found something.