bright early morning sun taking turns with lumbering clouds overhead.
this morning wasn’t meant to be a poem but here’s what it is.
I slept in my bed again, rather than just where I happened to be.
there’s a difference between which floor you choose to sleep upon.
then again it matters
what you bring inside
into your dreaming self.
I listened to a native man on TV the night before. His words well observed, sharp like a knife, bright like an arrow point found in the dirt. But under the sharp was the dull ache of being hurt, a shaft broken that won’t come out. He was a good heart, suffering. He had no god. Not ours, no matter that, nor of his people from whom he stood alone, but neither any plural he could feel of his own inside. So he just had his beautiful words to live within, kind of lonely that way.
a scentless bloom. truth don’t like sleeping alone.
neil reid © april 2013
Written for the We Write Poems prompt #151, morning poem.
And maybe it’s my NaPoWriMo poem too (if one will count?)
But really, written for me. How long long since the last I wrote. Neither was I even trying and mostly this is from a conversation I was having, then thought, well it all counts, all the words, and shouldn’t it all be poems anyway. So here, a ball of mud tossed onto the wall.