How strange it feels
to pick up the pen,
with the intent to write.
As if I could peel away my skin
and let poetry see the light.
Exposure of the soul
in a way that few would
understand,
leaving my pen sitting limp
suddenly in my once so eager hands.
I feel like it should not stop me
the idea that I might be misunderstood,
instead I will let flower the words
and see if I can find the art within.
Samhain
By
Patricia Harris
Rolling pumpkins
glowing eyes,
decaying leaves,
admist costumery…
candy sacks in tiny hands
haunting the streets
until the nights end.
The veil is thinned
on this night of revelry,
It brings the ancestors
to weave the joy into
all that might be .
Poetry is designed for politics. Have you read mine?
I turned the page
By
Patricia Harris
As I expected the world
To be a story worth reading,
When I found that I was
Not enjoying the day…
I turned the page.
The story is going to be
One that I chose to write,
And if I am ready to with
nothing to stop me,
I turned the page.
Trading with the fae
By
Patricia Harris
They told me
They could take my pain
And steal it away.
Trading with the fae
Is worse than
Dealing with the devil
Any day.
The promises made
Are sweeter than sugar,
And the result is naught
But disappointment.
Caustic
By
Patricia Harris
The words that drip from your tongue
burn deeply into the soul,
Caustic like the acid,
Perhaps I am lost in a fog
of the brain melted by what you had to say…
I stand here broken,
wondering if I have made
many the wrong choice,
Walking through the acid rain…
for someone who will never see
the damage inflicted.
For the one who will always
cause me pain.
Singularity
By
Patricia Harris
Perhaps I am not the person
I thought I would be,
So like everyone else.
Perhaps I am but a
singularity,
a lost note
in a song sung
by the divine.
He is not My friend
By
Patricia Harris
He said he was my buddy,
My brother, my bestie,
Anything to get me closer.
He wanted me to want more,
Wanted me hooked on
What he had in store.
He is not my friend,
He is the chills in the
Middle of the night,
He is not my friend,
He is the last minute
Need to fight.
He is not my friend,
He is my dealer.
Lost Notes
By
Patricia Harris
My voice used to sing
A tune of wonder and
The highest moments
Of love for life…
Somehow I have
Lost Notes in my song,
My beat is off and I
Fear that the song no longer
Hits the notes
I once was capable of.
Behind the mirror
By
Patricia Harris
Could I be like Alice
Walking through the looking glass?
And if I did would it make my troubles
Bigger or would it make them small?
What is there that we cannot see
On the other side of the mirror
from me?
Though the idea calls to the
Adventurous part of my soul,
I remember the faery tales of old.
If you go uninvited to the places
Where they play,
A heavy price they may take.
Pattimouse 