by ©Linda J. Wolff
I write to open wounds, to bleed out onto a canvas.
To purify scars.
In, “Spilling Out – Found Poetry,”
what is the sense of holding onto scars,
if one cannot heal?
How long does one want to feel pain from the folds of the heart?
Spilling Out – Found Poetry
I’m WILLING to bleed.
Because if I am a realistic woman,
then it’s my purpose to tell myself when
I am walking in a black raincoat under maple trees.
That maple trees hold the sky’s emotions;
if I am a poet of poetry, I must write the raw, fresh cut.
If I am a poet for meditative thinking
I want to pour a health potion of healing.
Maple trees as viridescence as village green glass.
And my fingers throb because I wrote a piece of poetry
about a girl who swallowed dark, gray clouds whole.
Because of the heavy rain, she could drown and if she cannot survive.
I cannot escape.
Maple trees are swaying in a glass.
Because sadly I would rather sit in solace than to be sad.
Because of certain circumstances, I make allowances
Because here I am enjoying life and she is suffering.
If I am a poet— If I am a girl,
if the amount of care is always precisely the same,
I show my bleeding ink to the reader.
Maple trees the color of fallen leaves.
Maples trees the color of brilliant new buds.
©Linda J. Wolff