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Alabaster words

I drew the pen searing against my alabaster wrist
and held it there dripping words flowing against
white, white skin

I spoke but no one listens
to a poet's �pretty words
they fall in silence
abject silence
echoing through the hurt

this word is broken cracked
a horrid whitewashed thing
who feels
who thinks
who breaths
in this polluted �place

the music doesn't resonate
three chords
monkeys plucking strings
and words empty words
no one really sings

we write convoluted sentences

Written by shadowsfallsoftly

Published 4th Jan 2016

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Re. Alabaster words

Poetryman

- Edited 4th Jan 2016 8:39am

4th Jan 2016 8:12am

Often it feels as though our poems are works of futility spilled on the pure white page like blood from our open wounds. We convey our deepest sorrow, our living pain and breathtaking love, but who really is listening? Perhaps only others who enter the darkness of the underground, but even if our eyes are not the eyes we long to lay upon the verse singing in our souls, still we are a chorus singing to the deaf preacher in invisible ink.
Hmm, that felt like a poem, I think I will post it. Thanks for inspiring me with your poetry!
JJ

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