The method of my madness
Is the confidence in blackness
In a meadow of white flowers
Some roses, some saps
In a forest of unintelligible raps
Small, handcrafted lines don’t stand a chance
And they never gave me one, no endorsement
But with patience and practice I absorbed it
Now wherever I go I pen the deepest passion
Without inspiration, just routine, no rations
Of any emotion I might be feeling at the time
Be it anger, be it guilt, be it sadness
That often warms as a thick quilt
Draped over a sick child in fits of agony
Don’t look at my misery, don’t behold
The catastrophe
But you can’t help but read, I can’t help but write
The tasers, headlamps, and body cams
The prisoners, the sentencers, the tweeters
They don’t scare me
Not nearly as much as I scare myself
Digging up these solemn regrets
And showing them off to the world
As if I were a vessel of troubled thoughts
With nothing left to give
Beautiful poem, Devereaux. ❤
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Thank you Peach 😁😁
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