Poetry is where all the hurt goes to settle,
For a while.
Death does not see them because unending things have nowhere to be,
So, words take form of magic and trap intangebility,
You can make up words in the realm of poetry,
Emotions stay real.
All the hurt stay in lines,
Punctuated by everydayness, in between feelings,
And deep breaths.
Hurt comes out boiling and bubbling,
While you look at the world with tired colour glasses,
Sometimes, the words tumble,
Sometimes, they fall like freezing rain on concrete,
Shards of unspeakables pricking the unconscious,
Sometimes, every bit of word making has a bit of blood on it,
Wrung out of ricochetting thought spirals,
The poet drained,
A new page of words,
A fossilized crime scene.
-Bose
