meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

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I have no poems left here in Portland.
The words have left me,
Are tangled high up in the grey clouds.
They've built a long concrete bench
With steel bars every four feet.
So, you cannot lay your head,
Lay your body down,
Get some relief.
I have no poems left here in Portland.
The lack of love is like tall weeds
Choking, strangling all of my pale pale words.
I feel I am a crow.
Watching my black feathers grow.
The apt scavenger of birds.
I have no poems left here in Portland.
Wait
There is one of a man
With green knowing eyes, grey curls,
Making love with his music for all the world.
I worry that he has few poems left too.
Could it be
I've given him my malaise, my flu?
Here a smile can be a dreadful thing,
The harbinger of more or less an unkindly kind of thing.
Can I feel how far down I've fallen,
How I fell?
Would I stand a better chance here, than in Hell?
Perhaps, it is not Portland.
Perhaps I'm a cancer that has always been...
A small splinter that has festered
And now the poems are rotting out
From within.


Copyright August 8th, 2010
Melissa A Howells
Meloo


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