poetry

Therapy

 

His damp hands claw-clamped

for an explanation.

Some curled up fingers in

the nervous patch of his stomach

i want to get to know him…

His unsprung mind threw up

connected halves of another

side.

It Works, in a whisper of

more force then shout

The calm mind slumped into

the caring kind of

posture,

throwing a shout,

like a paper bag.

 

He wins with a glassed up jar,

a soiled cigarette imprinting

his finger, breaking

his breath.

i like the way the thread follows…

A flick of the face, buries

His hand into something, pumping,

something, choking, faking it too

late, he thinks and yawns jaws

for thought.

A thread.

 

The stage is cramped, his narrator

is folding the words back into paper.

The Crowds Loud Shout is whispering

too little. The spaces are built up with

an air of emotion, holding the room.

The chairs circled,

The pen penciled

next to its pad.

The room is the crutch, floating

the heart

i think he carries the voice almost…

Stories he watched retract, snap,

tape-measure in the cleared up room.

the Silence he holds chisels out bits of

brain.

They fall out the flat hand, into

the jar,

naked.

 

PhilosopherPoet

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