Sub: Poem#1987(Poetry)

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

All engines burning on Fiction

Lately, I have not written poetry.

It is hard to believe, surrounded

By humans and animals.

 

It is barely spring.

It is barely five.

The smoker outside

Is barely alive.

Children push siblings in carriages

Shaking powdered cinnamon

On tall, light, mocha frappuccinos.

Only differences between daughter and mother

Are stature and amateur body language.

Travel through this painted life

Absorb it into my irises;

Spill it out in ink symbols.

 

Magazines do not accept poems

About writing.

What do you want from us?

My poems reflect my life.

Who am I writing for?

Is it you?

Is it me?

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