deepundergroundpoetry.com
I've seen the
I've seen the monster that follows you
the territorial foreigner
interlaced and aged
he hovers my senses by breath and depth
I see his tendrils curling tighter when I draw nearer
I see him ensuring recognition
I smell him permeating his cologne commanding and arresting my attention
and establishing borders
I see him soldiering back and forth
I see him when the color leaves your eyes
I see him in muted sound
I see him in static
I see him
I hate him
he hates me
because I see him
the territorial foreigner
interlaced and aged
he hovers my senses by breath and depth
I see his tendrils curling tighter when I draw nearer
I see him ensuring recognition
I smell him permeating his cologne commanding and arresting my attention
and establishing borders
I see him soldiering back and forth
I see him when the color leaves your eyes
I see him in muted sound
I see him in static
I see him
I hate him
he hates me
because I see him
Published 23rd Aug 2018
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Anonymous
- Edited 30th May 2019 3:51pm
23rd Aug 2018 5:59pm
<< post removed >>
1st Nov 2019 4:29am
1st Nov 2019 4:34am
Thank you! Writing it freed that tightness in the chest. The kind that seems to just combust and write itself.
I know what you mean. This something I actually got published that describes how I see what you are feeling in your comment.
The Young Poet
The young poet sits in his dim lit room
Drinking cheap wine and wondering.
He knows it could all just be bullshit
But oh how he wants to believe himself.
He takes another sip and sparks a cig
Then you start to hear the clicks.
Suddenly there’s music in the air.
He can no longer feel his room around him.
We see walls. He sees anything. He is free.
Losing track of his typing, he only has to think.
His fingers now move with his thoughts.
Clocks spin and his attention is never broken.
Then it ends and he sits depressed at the foot of his bed
With his head in his hands wondering when he will do it again.
I can totally take this off if you want me to btw
The Young Poet
The young poet sits in his dim lit room
Drinking cheap wine and wondering.
He knows it could all just be bullshit
But oh how he wants to believe himself.
He takes another sip and sparks a cig
Then you start to hear the clicks.
Suddenly there’s music in the air.
He can no longer feel his room around him.
We see walls. He sees anything. He is free.
Losing track of his typing, he only has to think.
His fingers now move with his thoughts.
Clocks spin and his attention is never broken.
Then it ends and he sits depressed at the foot of his bed
With his head in his hands wondering when he will do it again.
I can totally take this off if you want me to btw
1st Nov 2019 7:22pm
Jenga of overwhelm: the collapse takes you down but the fall clears the canvas- open creative space
I like this one
I like this one
