Day 4 Creative Words- In me

Scalloped edged ornate walls,
water on the floor.
I am sore.
Slight discomfort is comforting,
slight odour is comforting too.
Curious then that I try to wash it away.

Downy hairs on the inside of my thigh
bleached golden from summer sun.
As the calendar flips images of winter emerge,
images devoid of you.
You do not live in the snow.
You live in a life less boring.

Cloud shadows lie cross quilted scape
as we move towards relations.
Can the summer breeze exist anywhere but the fancy of summer?

Wind drives the turbines, the promise of power without impact
a way of erasing, or at least making amends.
Foolhardy perhaps, a horse after a cart,
and still the odour lingers.
Water and paper towel do nothing to hide
hopes, fears and little girl dreams
of a mark left, my impact.
A mark as plain to see as crab pincher bruises inside downy haired thighs.
Bruises which will fade by the time the snow flies
along with the odour
which I managed, at last, to wash away
And with it its comfort.

Clean, empty, the turbine now still
no breeze
Just a cold, still, grey winters day.
No impact, only amends to make to a heart with no courage.

A lovely perk of poetry is how it allows the writer to speak about things out in the open, express their angst, fear and rage, without having to actually tell the story. Cryptic self expression that makes for excellent art.

“Do you have a story which you are afraid to tell?” is the question in 12 days journal #109

“If I was all pure and shit where would my art come from?”
-Bernice Raabis to K.D.