discover that poetry <br />are mere feelings, others <br />who succeed at this <br />craft have nothing <br />to tell really, <br />falling out of logic <br />and taking side <br />with images <br />like a slide show of <br />children's pictures <br />with their overprotective <br />mothers in <br />fantasy land, <br />riding on teacups and <br />having pleasantries <br />with Alice <br />in Wonderland, <br /> <br />know that poetry is <br />a crutch, a dam of <br />emotions, to protect <br />the fields of corn <br />below the belly of <br />the great river <br />of destruction, <br /> <br />you write more with <br />a numb left arm now, <br />the fear spreading <br />on the chest, as the hour <br />gets creepy, and <br />threatens you with <br />a sad goodbye. <br /> <br />there is a rush here <br />to take the bus <br />you're late for almost <br />every appointment, <br />it is raining and you <br />have no umbrella, <br />you step inside <br />only to find that <br />the heel of your right <br />shoe is broken. <br /> <br />fear has more to offer <br />now, than love and lust. <br /> <br />and then, you keep on <br />writing about it, <br />as though, words can <br />help.<br /><br />RIC S. BASTASA<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-at-4-09-a-m-numb-left-arm-and-fear/
