Awen

senses,

I remember the reap and feasts

of old,

I remember you.

There is a line of crimson-curled posey

working deep inside

and it’s biting at my ribs

to be let out–

(this is Awen–when muse strikes and you are helpless before it.)

I’m trying,

oh I’m trying to live.

I’m trying to be real.

that’s what,

Shut Up.

It’s not like anything else I know.

~Melanie Blackwell

12 Comments

Filed under Poetry

12 responses to “Awen

  1. “There is a line of crimson-curled posey working deep inside…”

    I had the same problem the other night after that Findus lasagne.

  2. Reblogged this on Wordifull and commented:

    One from the archives…

  3. Your words are always so powerful. “biting at my ribs…” Images… trying to get out. Wonderful.

  4. The images you create are so REAL and thought-provoking.

  5. I understand “biting at my ribs” This has such depth it takes more than one read to take it in…beautiful piece

  6. bgbowers

    “biting at my ribs” – love it!

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