The End
By Patricia Harris
Is once the word is spoken
at the end of it’s life,
nothing further for it to know?
or is the verse just beginning
and the speech the start
of all it will know?
Either way I feel like
the word spoken in verse
will catch something more than
interest and ignite a new thirst.
Until dawn
By Patricia Harris
Staying awake for no reason
Until dawn approaches
Produces the same dreams
As if you were to crawl into
Bed as soon as the night falls.
Telling the self that life
Must fit in the schedule
Given by social settings
Only creates a guilt
Unnecessarily.
I am Human
by Patricia Harris
The best idea of who I am
is found in the mirror,
flaws showing,
Dreams weaving into a form
resembling something divine.
I am human,
with all that it might mean.
I am human,
with the whole world laid
out in front of my feet.
Sickness
By Patricia Harris
Though I have no reason
Why I can’t do what I need done,
Today I feel like the sickness
Has won.
On the day
When I have
So much to do…
And I don’t have time
To just be laying down
Struggling through…
That is when my body gives in.
So much of poetry
Is a subjective thing…
Words, emotions,
Metaphors, and swing…
Sometimes catharsis comes
Just from the attempt
To find poetry in the way
Words come out on paper.
Tears of ink
In poetry form,
Cried until the poet
No longer has tears left
With which to write.
Then what should the poet do?
Pluck out the heart and
Serve it dry?
Writing poetry is
Just another art
Pick up the pen
And bleed the
Colors of your heart.
Your soul will be
Painted in your verse,
Clear and consise
In flowing words.
In putting the pen
To the paper
I may be committing
The darkest of sins,
For bleeding poetry
Is acknowledging
That the world
Yet can be used
To hurt the soul again.
It is not about the words,
The rhythm, or the verse,
It is merely about the truth
That only poetry can be
Made to let loose.
verse to ease a mind in chaos
written down in rhythm rehearsed.
poetic bent strengthened by
the age old desire to live eternal
as the moment lives.
so up goes the pen
to write the verse,
poetry makes sense…
for where else could
eternity possibly exist?
Pattimouse 