writing is akin to
an aching
an opening up of the wound
a blood-letting
to release poisons
into torrents of words
disappointment
frustrations
everyday hurts
they take their toll
some poisons are more effective
because they seem to choose me
why do I let them chose?
who in their right mind
would choose poison
its not as if almonds
improve the complexion of the mind
but
here is my sweet sip
a-bubble
in its pretty blue cup
the one with swaying blue willows
drinking it up
for me
really
isn't much of a choice
why then
would I even choose?
LEGAL copyright for this poem
and also for this writer
and also for this legally copyrighted
site Title: Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World.
7:23am pst after one very long night
