words i wrote when it seemed that everything was back to front and odd.
this pen made 2 million rand and now writes the words of a saddened adolescent cheated by the guided works of young adult books
this pen just ran out of ink
wear your sadness on your sleeve
show your heartbreak
hold your head up
and wear your socks odd
the artists felt something i will never posses in my conscious thoughts and words
the world appeared upside down paired with mismatched cutlery and a glare from her mother
i want Dali to illustrate my dreams
while Turner tampers with my nightmares to create a cacophony
of heaven found in a boy who i loved.
wearing buttons in your hair
and clips on your coat to a garden tea party
spit in the sandwiches
sneeze in the cordial
become a dismay of the dictionary to put your name in the thesaurus
A side way street for existential crises
and another for the addicts
do not become your medication
do not conform to your prescription
do not write poetry in maths class
Bella... we don't know each other very well, and so I can't fathom what force lead me to click on your post.
ReplyDeleteThis being said, regardless of the fact that you're a stranger I truly felt as if the author of this poem could only be my own ambivalent mind. However, it turned out to be none other than the famous Burning Bum Artist.
I don't really know why I'm still writing this, and I'm not sure if I've really expressed how I feel quite yet. Regardless, I'll end off here; do not stop writing poetry (be it in maths class or picking at a pomegranate surrounded by a bunch of dazed souls).
Who needs numbers when you have such words? Write in the maths class, yes do, and write in the bath and at the dining table, by all means write! Don't stop.
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