Disheveled stanzas
disorganized scansion
but nevertheless
Here I am.
If you thought to read
instead of dismiss
you'd learn me
scarred
each bruised
somber syllable
a short, violent history.
I am a windmill
and I turn only for these
dancing words in dreams.
Yes, now and then
I may wax sentimental
or lament misunderstanding
but nevertheless
here I am.
If you had sought relief
instead of contempt
you'd learn me
stuttered
each line a balm
that burns like the sun
but quickly relieves like the rain
I am a poem
and there are secrets in here,
like in you and me.
