This poem shall not reflect the inner emotions nor the deepest secrets nor the most profound contemplations of the human struggle nor a self-indulgent wisdom or internal dialogue that mentions the words duality or dichotomy or will it regard subjects pertaining to wilted roses lost loves trapped in the perfumes of long embraces heart wrenching lonliness or doves that flutter in rhythm to an iambic pentameter this poem shall not convey the author’s most urgent need nor disguise it the third person opposite sex in order to excersise the volume of his voice to cry out for perhaps another lone sole in a darkened library in a symphathetic moment longing for acknowledgment or a tear to share the pain of a lost love trapped in the perfumes of long embraces or the rose of good intention that wilts in the hands of his holder this poems destiny is not bestowed amongst prophetic pages nor the conciseness that consumes a haiku summing up the heart wrenching lonliness of one falling leaf in cummings forest of desolation this poem will not fill pages with finely tuned articulations of eloquently stated paradigms designed to stimulate your intellect and confuse its readers with six syllable words that no have no relative correlation to anything besides making it seemed like something profound just happened. nor shall this rhyme or enslave these words to keep time within these very lines but since language inherently does so, I apologize in advance for making this seem like a poem the destiny of these words shall be of most basic expression placed in front of the readers eyes or ears to instill a void where thought should reside meant to distract the reader from poetrys true purpose this poem is the fear of poetrys true purpose actually and the rejection of the ambiguity of a vague mirage drifting like fog through a simile this poem appears as the fog clears and drips dewing metaphors in the morning from the dried petals of yes a wilted rose. this poem is clear as day this poem confuses clichés with good points and stutters the punch line like two stones to kill a mockingbird this poem is a train whose thought has dismantled long ago and subsequently whose tracks do not follow poetry’s conventional direction this poem is the passengers gaze across the corn fields of Nebraska who is comforted by a world without gentle breezes swaying upon the horizons of heartache across the dreamlands of hopeful tomorrows and lullabies, other pretty things and suchnesses of subtleties nope, this poem is merely the scarecrows stare. this is a comfort zone for readers who despise poetrys pathological pretension and the poets who publish prize winning prose with hopes of popularizing personal prosperities and promise this poem is the hope that one day it will choke on its mouth full of ironies and alliterations and words that end in –ation its expansive all-encompassing spaceracing momentiousnous of infinite cellular ubiquity of atamological transmorphistic spew spatterings that means everything and says nothing and sonnets and flowers and love this poem is the taste left on the tongue after a long nite of smoking two packs of poetry. this poem is for those who would rather not share that morning kiss. TroyanoNewton.2009.Texas.
- not even for a second
- StreetWise – Panama