Dissection Of A Poem

There is a big difference when I write a poem and a story. To write fiction I’ll go deep into my imagination as to invent a story; whereas for a poem, well… it’s more of an instantaneous thing, almost didactic; and it’s only when I re-read the poem I’ve written, that I notice some elements of my own experiences and personal thoughts that are embedded into the poem. To me, the poem I write is simply an unconscious cacophonous blend of personal experiences, thoughts, wants, and needs – a dissection of the intimacy of my mind.  

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Poetry is an intimacy,

From which I can’t quite ever recover,

All of these subliminal dissections

Of my mind that look so fancy,

Yet that portrays thoughts under cover.

You see the night and the bright;

The bride and its passionate mate

All of the happiness and all of the fright

Something dark, something like fate

All my rearing, all I am, all naked.

I dream of mares –

That wildly run into my nightmares

They are headless and poneylike,

They are all colours and rainbowlike

All living, in these poetries, dissected.

How would I describe all that flows?

They just flow, wildly, as I exorcise

Or perhaps its Mnemosyne, that sows,

Her seeds, which blooms, into nine muses —

Letting all the beauty of words rise.

If the poetry of me is a lie

From which I can’t quite ever recover

For through all of these dissections

Something truthful only to me comes

While all my thoughts, gently flow and fly.