In the middle of madness
Lay the verse,
Written down to try to explain
Something dark and perfect.
That the world can be seen
With eyes shaded by dark things,
Or overgrown with flowers
That bloom in nightshade.
All of this is just an expression
Of poetry and the truth from
What a heart can bleed.
Words detached from the heart
Spelled into the pen,
Creating from the energy given
The poetry given to the world..
Perhaps I could do something more
With the energy than shaping it
Into the verse so fair,
But the perverse nature of my heart
Says that I must make the poetry.
Soul
By Patricia Harris
Perhaps I am mistaken
In belief that a soul is not meant
to be trampled upon.
I think that too many are thinking
of the wrong spelling of the word.
The sole of our feet are for
walking upon, Nothing within
the soul of a man
is meant to be trod upon.
*sorry I am running late.
The words flow
To form the flower
Of poetry petals.
Though I have
Ink for a soul,
I leave petals
Of poetry
everywhere.
Why are all the poets tortured,
The artists starved,
And that somehow makes
The world go around?
Poetry seems to heal
The tortured souls,
And so I am inclined
to think that those who
Need it most create.
Wasteland of the heart
By Patricia Harris
Perhaps dystopian tales
Have it all wrong,
The apocalypse will not be
Some huge global catastrophe…
Instead I think that
It is going to be
A slow decay of the social
Heart and mind.
That has already begun
With man no longer caring for
The fellow man…
The wasteland of the heart
Has already started to form
With the world not decaying
Just falling apart silently
From within.
When does all of the noise
Become poetry again?
The darkness seems to
Overwhelm the senses,
Making poetry seem
harder to hear
Harder to write…
But eventually
The cracks let in
The light.
Poetry will return
When it is given
Time to flow.
Tropes
By Patricia Harris
Writing based
on the expectation
Is harder to explore
The openness of creativity.
Tropes in poetry
Tend to be
Writing love
And nature poems.
I’m not a poet
That leans towards
The tropes to hold
My writing up.
My Best
By Patricia Harris
As I ramble,
I gathered praise
But all I could hear
Was the need to improve,
Because I thought all that they saw
Was the flair in my eyes.
So I lifted my collar
And set myself up
I was going to do more
Until I was not able to bear it.
Though I had already
Done my best.
When the poetry
Doesn’t flow
What is the poet
Supposed to know?
For if your whole world
Is built on verse
Then what could be
Any worde
Than the lack of words?
Pattimouse 