Poetry For Everyday People
Interpretation Is Individual
I guess at times
I find it pure sarcasm
the things people
say, especially the
ones taken on what
is way beyond their
reach yet somehow feel
they can make these calls?
interpretation is individual,
yet they wanna explain you,
to you,
and I sit on my dock
my feet splashing in warm blood
thinking how beautiful a sun set
when diving into a sea of red,
an old wooden boat floats as if
the soul of forgotten lovers
or a fisherman who got eaten by
time,
splashing my feet in warm blood,
drinking a cold beer on my dock,
over yonder a row of snow
women lining the drive way eight
of them in all, four on opposite
sides, red scurf's around their necks,
they wear big straw hats with pink
ribbons and yellow flowers, empty wine bottles
for arms, red cherries for eyes,
beer cap for a nose,
oatmeal cookie for a mouth,
each one with red high heels in front of
them, empty, waiting,
unaffected by the sun or the
hell around the corner,
they stand like mothers guarding,
no house at the end of the drive way
just snow women silent with
red arm pits,
splashing my feet in warm blood I
point my toes at the falling sun and
I make it rain and the blood washes off
my feet, pull out another cold beer thinking
in utter amazement? what makes another human
being think they know about this,
this place I live.
I find it pure sarcasm
the things people
say, especially the
ones taken on what
is way beyond their
reach yet somehow feel
they can make these calls?
interpretation is individual,
yet they wanna explain you,
to you,
and I sit on my dock
my feet splashing in warm blood
thinking how beautiful a sun set
when diving into a sea of red,
an old wooden boat floats as if
the soul of forgotten lovers
or a fisherman who got eaten by
time,
splashing my feet in warm blood,
drinking a cold beer on my dock,
over yonder a row of snow
women lining the drive way eight
of them in all, four on opposite
sides, red scurf's around their necks,
they wear big straw hats with pink
ribbons and yellow flowers, empty wine bottles
for arms, red cherries for eyes,
beer cap for a nose,
oatmeal cookie for a mouth,
each one with red high heels in front of
them, empty, waiting,
unaffected by the sun or the
hell around the corner,
they stand like mothers guarding,
no house at the end of the drive way
just snow women silent with
red arm pits,
splashing my feet in warm blood I
point my toes at the falling sun and
I make it rain and the blood washes off
my feet, pull out another cold beer thinking
in utter amazement? what makes another human
being think they know about this,
this place I live.
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Interpretation Is Individual
Interpretation Is Individual
