Stand Alone Poet

scribing words never spoke
because the stasis
is a thrill of its own.
this is why my veins thump
the ink I want
to sculpt these lines with.

my words are left on paper
for any reader to digest
hopefully these lines
and this ink fuse as one
into a simplistic bright yet dark

a painted tribute only leaves me
to shun each potent sunrise,
because survival only happens
in the dark.

Gusts overtake this body
where lines are left
to remember that
we too have room to bleed.

a heart is only a stone
when your epicenter is off balanced
my eyes only bleed salvation
when I see the sunrise.

I wish for a starless night
where the moon forgot to show itself
because I am hollow and the skull of a body
will only remain intact when my poetry screams.

a gust blew by
I left a candle by the door
her fragrance blew out my flame
where the wick remained unscathed
because her ideal of warmth
is a cold T.V. dinner.

its a cold walk home
I left the house with no identification
no money, just a plan to write
this is the thoughts of a poet
the words of poetry
and the ideas of being

– Patrick M Murphy


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