Its called acceptance. Purging. Poetry. Whatever. Its probably the hormones, or probably me going nuts. Or, simply, withdrawal. No, I'm not diagnosing myself anymore... I'm bad at this. Whatever it is.


Picking Fruit

I used to love blueberries.

Their unruliness, tanginess,
the endless stains. Especially,
the way the sweetest ones grew
in the thorniest places.

I impeached my reason, choosing
love over romance. Redefine
heart failure – I lost, I lose.

Interludes that stretched the oceans
like rubber bands, yet the waters
comfort me. The salt
stings my open wounds, but
I still love the thorns.




Poetry by Arti
Read 585 times
Written on 2007-08-04 at 06:41

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lastromantichero The PoetBay support member heart!
Arti this is a wonderful poem and you are a great poetess.
Anddo you know what I stopped analysing myself years ago when I decided I was nothing more than a romantic fool.

rgds mike
2007-08-04