Poem 2
Involving myself with a poet seems to have inspired a sudden lust for modern poetry. Mine. His. Especially his. It's also turned a simple writing autobiography exercise on how one sees the self in metaphors into a poem. The second one I've written this year.
(Just in case unaware, this is lots. I'm not a poet.)
There is a mist
Howevering over a gate
Barricading against the things I don't want to be real.
Behind it,
I am not a rock,
More a floating whisp
Solidified by jasmine flowers
And grounded by the rocks of other people.
I am gently leaning reeds
Hanging over a riverbed,
Bending without breaking,
But only until the winds storm through.
I have thorns
Directed inward,
Poking into things only I can see.
I am solitary,
Yet surrounded.
(Just in case unaware, this is lots. I'm not a poet.)
There is a mist
Howevering over a gate
Barricading against the things I don't want to be real.
Behind it,
I am not a rock,
More a floating whisp
Solidified by jasmine flowers
And grounded by the rocks of other people.
I am gently leaning reeds
Hanging over a riverbed,
Bending without breaking,
But only until the winds storm through.
I have thorns
Directed inward,
Poking into things only I can see.
I am solitary,
Yet surrounded.