A glass of Primitivo

My glass of Primitivo and blank canvas collected with crushed memories. My breathing is slow and my heart is pounding. Oscar Wilde and Sylvia Plath are about to save me during the night hours of insanity and intoxication.

My unaddressed soulmates are buried in their finest literature. Our greatest gifts are sentimental. Look at us roaming in the poetic imagination of ourselves.

When the heart and mind have nothing left to offer, we stand still and wait for the moments of hurt to cease. The weather in me is gloomy and frigid, but when poetry knocked on my door, she greeted me with a welcoming ease.

My mother frightened by the many goodbyes. Not a Nobel prize winner, but a daughter of confusion and lies. A mental woman for one with her nakedness clothed in poetic justice.
Oh mental woman! Read the poetry by the unknown poets abandoned in their dark cages and drunken dreams. Poetry is the healing virtue of patience. A journey of deep oceans and transformations.

I am buried under the debris of poetry and an aura full of hope. Poems are not just poems. They are not defined by their forms, they are however distinguished by their norms.

Our feelings evoked and our anger triggered, but our strength placed within the arms of composed sonnets. Poetry means the world to me because it conveys an aesthetic act.

A home for some, a home to none but poetry, and I, will never be done.