The mind of a Poet

 

I have this indigo skyline infront of me,
expanding the vastness
i put my thoughts about it into my blood.
not swallowing it down to my veins
i have thoughts about thoughts,
my pale tea leaves dissolving so fervently into the water,
the sorbet pouring down the jug till the rim creaks

i have you in my mind now,
sipping my cold talks,
between the creaking of mountains and bed,
I split & tear
quenching, reaching like tides.

A poet’s mind is never too quiet
it absorbs even as the sky expands with colors so unbearable, quietly.
And i do not refuse death, so that you may know.
I knead my loneliness safely down my sweet- ankle apple,
all through th trembling small palms.
I keep it to my body, somehow.

on many other occasions, I would weep through a lipstick and a forlorn tale,
a tale you must not know,
eating a fruit so wild,
shutting off the dim lights
There is a process of a thin black band expanding
as if the body is swaying through the knowledge that is wild.
I am often so subdued as if everything is disgusting.

The poet’s mind is too insane to write a word like
//

M I R T H//

through the shards of the ceilings.
Death makes so much sense to the poets,
they almost survive the death each night.