Something you call the sun

poetry

I could easily say simple things. Lovely lyrics that lay flat. Lightweight plots that point to the obvious. I could do this and I’d reach the masses. Make millions. Sell Books.

I could write stories in a linear line, give soft endings. I could, I could, I could;

a reader recently said I have trouble sticking to the point, that I shouldn’t forget where I’m headed.

Did you ever think. I’m making you work.

Are there instructions for viewing a painting.

Would it have been better if I said, I love Lilly Priebe and she does not love me. Did I lose you when I said,

the forest green rivers inside of her hands guided me into the dark sea and I couldn’t hold my breath as the wild waves licked the side part in my hair.

Remember. No instructions. Keep up or walk off.

Someone tries to help. Says. Trick them. Write simple. First. To get their attention. And then, when they’re all lined up, give them the holes in your head.

But these readers. They’re on leashes. They need thick socks on paws. Can’t collect earth at their feet.

This is not my problem to solve. Because me. I’m not the masses. So how could I possibly reach them.

I’m barefoot in the wetlands, lying naked on the roof of my home. I’m watching you while you struggle to hear me;

careful, I might haunt you.

Careful, you might see yourself. Because me. I meet hollow pieces of you:

soft bone, gray blood, manicured memories warmed by something you call the sun.

image by alyssa brooke