If Eye Were A Poet

I would recognize the fragility of my

Perception.

Terrifying.

To real eyes regurgitation is the norm.

As fate filled fears of yesteryear percolate near surface wounds

(To remind me of my irrelevance)

Words curl around my mental like bits of plaigerized patriarchy pandering to pedantic people more impressed by platitudes than by

Truth.

If I were a poet;

I would parse through the lameness of sameness to finally find something – original.

But I’m not.

At least, not yet.

And so.

You’re left with diluted ideas posing as words waiting for a home

In minds more attuned to the frequency of

Love.

Reforming rogue lines into stanzas that breathe life everlasting.