I am a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. If I could pinpoint who ripped me apart And scattered my pieces like bread for birds, I'm not sure if I'd hug them or hurt them. I guess that would depend upon whether Or not I could pinpoint exactly who had put them together in the first place.
The unseen moonlight that touches his face Is justification enough for his useless celebration of self-pity. The silence makes him think about silence. Silence added to blindness makes the air seem toxic. The quiet is equivalent to death slower than a burning cigar. He thinks until a deafening siren breaks the fearful silence to remind him that he still remains partially alive, To remind him that with the eviction of sight comes the need to adjust to life as the basket case he's grudgingly become.
If writing poetry was your thing, And you wrote a poem for me, I imagine it'd go something like this: "Who is the world to define what's insane? Why is it normal for society to deem you crazy Enough times for your naive soul to believe it? I'm here to let you know that your theoretical madness Is what makes this world so beautiful. And I welcome the world to disagree, For, after all, isn't the denial of compliments The most natural of phenomena?"
I dwell in the walls, Ceilings and floors Of the universe; In the soul Of every ghost; And in the mind Of every human Awake at night In awe of The perplexity My existence Bestows upon them, They who cannot Comprehend How one can Have no limits.
Poetry should simultaneously sing the song of everybody, somebody, and nobody. It should, like a Pollock painting, rapidly and mysteriously make a mess of that which is accepted as truth.
Poetry should rip open scabs until pages are soaked in blood of both reader and writer to remind us that although our scars hold novel shapes, we all bleed the color of the devil. In this reminder, poetry should stitch up each wound it's created.