In Poetry (again And Again)

you talk about doors
where there are no windows

you imagine things exist
when all they do is pass by

you try to hold unto permanence
when there is none actually

it is not at all emotions
mind you, there is more to all of these

not just words, flesh, perhaps i am just
entertaining the illusions of the flesh

or light, or even the grass that live
on my head, as though i have

hair, in this game, there is no fixed
directions, simply because

in the first place, you do not really know
where to go, or what to do

with your life, it is just sitting down, talking
to the conscience, playing with its

thoughts, and questioning its rules,
there could be war, between you and

another you, and they say, here comes
another schizophrenic trying to spell

out the difference between a spill and
a pill, but there are images on the ceiling

lizards laughing, and a light bulb that
gets steady with its own

dim light, you imagine chairs as people
and the walls as curtains, and you

as the clown, or the magician trying to
do a trick, to please time, to stop hurting

other people, to love this self, that
lays like a carpet on the floor, there is

warmth, there is a flow of sentences, and
cut flowers, and a glass of cold water,

chunks of iced feelings, and sweet
sour fishy tales, and here comes another

fool trying to figure out, what are these lines,
maps, or pathways, or eddies of air,

or jars without wine, mugs without coffee,
words without meanings, just that.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!