Do you remember as a child, you could paint or draw anything and your masterpiece would be hung on the refrigerator door? Writing poetry does the same for me. I use poetic license in just about every aspect of my life, not only my writing. So, on this lazy Sunday, I thought I'd sit under the tree and share some of myself with you, through poetry.
THE WRITER'S MILIEU
Strewn papers of genius
Lay around for years
Unseen only by the dust collected
And deep frown marks rejecting
The words and sentences
That run on, trying to escape the
hand in a catcher's mitt.
Can a writer be so blind
That not a word of herself is understood?
Afraid and paralyzed to see further than
CHIMES OF MY RHYMES
Can you hear the chimes of my rhymes?
All I have most times.
Will you partake, or shun
The chimes of my rhymes.
Jealousy is a silent, secret wish
To change what I am not
To what I never will be.
Long gone is my curly, dark hair
And dark brown eyes
That could not see
My wish to be,
**All poems written by petra michelle**