poetry

Thrown

I’m caught up

in an unstrung silence

of my insane self.

I wear the weather…

And I can feel my bones

asking me to leave.

 

The audience is trapped with

Choices and lonely songs, that

Echo down to their feet

It fills up the untrained acoustic

Muse, who relaxes with

a pen

a head full of children.

and a throb in his throat.

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

By Jonathan Ballam

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