Here I sit waiting to be injected.
A thin veil between you and me.
With just the right amount of justification.
Add a ration of reasoning.
Some Sequence of logic.
My sting gets to be delivered.
I can't tell who's side you are on.
I don't understand what led up to my sting.
I just do what I do.
You figure out why I get delivered.
Afterwards, I'm all yours.
Stepping Stones of Necessary Effort
Feasible dreams command my thoughts
Taking away the sting of my labor.
"Tomorrow will be better" those who market self tell me to say.
I try to believe.
Blinded by the grass on my neighbors lawn I keep striving in the dark.
Effortless denial of companionship,
of community, of those close to me
become my repetwa.
Lost to those who should know me best.
Only to be expendable once I have
built the inspirations of others.
Absence of warmth infinite.
Horizon timeline unknown.
I compose chilled air with every breath.
My hand moves through a curve carefully.
Drawing circle lines creating an reaction near the silk.
With lips dry I risk frostbite touching angles of attraction.
Heartbeats intensify and warmth appears.
Radiant heat pulses through.
Droplets form and follow gravities command.
Silk support becomes pliable and disappears.
The chill of nerves replaces the cold.
Movements follow an unpracticed rhythm of composed air.
Nails claw for a favorite spot.
The Horizon accelerates at an unknown speed.
The face of love reveals its heat and shines brightly against me.
About the Author
After many years of ignoring requests from teachers in school to pursue a career
in writing (pressured mostly by the vocational concerns of this world) I had bottled
up my expression and became a very good mimic of what my perceived world wanted.
It wasn't until the Summer of 2004 that a very small but significant accident
with an lawn mower blade forced me to take a well needed break which seemed to
be the trigger of a rush of personal expression and in a short time resulted in
my website http://www.bryanwhyte.com with about 30 different poems.
In progressive form the writing continues, I believe there were certain poems
that I had to do first, coming off the froth of a latte, now I continue to listen
to what I am drawn to, what keeps presenting itself over and over again, finding
those grounded up nuggets at the bottom.
I define a poet as one who takes the simple and disguises it in the extraordinary.
Striping away the endless demands of the self-inflicted, that is my true expression.
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