I thought it would be cool to end poetry month with a different type of poem.
You know, something jazzy and cool… something that is called a neato, cool name…
Well, I almost peed my pants laughing at all the rules of different types of poetry.
I don’t follow rules at the best of times 🤣 🤣 🤣 so to start thinking about iambic pentameter and strict requirements for rhyming and such, ummmm… no. lol.
I’ll just stick to Faye-Type-Poetry.
With all that said, here is my final poem for April 2023.
how is it that we learn so late what lies beneath our mistrust of self? our fears? our insecurities? time. life. death... rush past. a wild unharnessed windstorm. always chased; rarely caught. never tamed. our thoughts, dreams, and fanciful feelings dip and dance within the maniacal maelstrom leading us to embrace defeat. the debris of doubt litters our mind to feed the beast of angst finding what lay beneath later, rather than sooner, is a discovery of growth tucked hidden in the confines of our own misgivings. a sensual all-knowing of each nick, each scar, each full break upon the once delicate virginal surface now scarred. toughened by the seasons of onslaught absorbed for survival... for shelter from the elements hurled at breakneck speed. those deep cuts. the picked at scabs. recognize and rejoice in the flaws of perception that intimate a palpable depths to your very soul... whose luminescence brims with such tactile abundance. a goodness, creative genius. and a courage to dwell within. later doesn't mean forever. a recognition put off for now... until we can deal with it. until we can stand it no more a variance in stance like a degree of shift can alter the world of possibility. no need to reveal. just answer the call faye e arcand
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