Pretty words strung together,
Soft and lyrical, abstract or amusing.
To those untrained in its art, whether from want or need;
It’s a jumbled mystery, for bored and vain.
I have not the words, nor the popular rhymes;
But I wish to say, thoughts of my mind.
Can my words be the grunt and chokes, that I’ve uttered in the dark?
Or the sounds of his pleasured peak, as I’m held down from behind?
Can the rhythm be the gentle breeze, that carries my sweat around?
Or is it maybe the glaring sun, burning skin from my hunched back?
Is the paper my plot of land, that I toil from dawn till dusk?
Or the pen my jingling coins, that I earn barefoot around town?
Is the poem my cry of fear, as my house floats on the flooded river?
Or is it my howl of pained misery, as my child starves to death?
Raw in form, sore and unversed,
My poetry lacks finesse;
Someday I will write a poem,
That’ll match yours, life to life.
© 2020, Cozy Quiet Corner.