Filed under: Pensation | Tags: beat, poetry, poets, restless, Someones, souls, the mold
I’m no kind of poet -
no special sort of soul. I’m just the sort of someone who’s restless in the mold. First a dabble here, a comma there, in a square needing air, fix the tear, best beware of the kneading and the squeezing and the pleading and the freezing…
If and when you find a beat,
where sunshine heats and orbits meet
Never tarry to the day
When you with beat can run away.
There’re no kinds of poets
No special sorts of souls.
Just the sorts of Someones still wresting their molds.
Please, Friend, forgive me for promises broken
For quick steps in hallways
For excuses I’ve spoken
Please, Friend, forgive me for innocence lost
For childhood abandoned
For value forgot
Please, Friend, forgive me for apathy lived
For suff’ring ignored
For eyes that I hid
Please, Friend, forgive me for mornings with frowns
For blessings neglected
For searches for crowns
For all of the days when I’ve fenced off my soul
With ephemeral pleasure my only goal
Forgive that I’ve failed in forgiveness for all
And Please, one more time, let Your grace break my fall.
