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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
Green Peas at Stake
#272495 added January 11, 2004 at 7:17am
Restrictions: None
She Goes to Bed With Lights On
She first goes to bed
with lights on,
a modest hope chirping under her eyelids,
preferring to ignore the darkness,
trying not to feel,
trying to slip past herself,
trying to toss away dreams,
but a weak tear reappears over the misery of a rustle
of recall, a rumor she didn’t heed, like the whisper
of green caterpillar legs sliding on a leaf,
that forecast rose petals to be eaten away.

How vaguely she created an unrecognizable face,
a lover’s image,
her soft hands reaching to loss, dragging excuses,
tangling in calluses and shams!

No more hush-hush...

Her shriek, though internal, shrill and wild, pierces
through the lampshade, like the Munch drawing
“The Scream”; an outcry among black ink lines
tracing countless sobs, struggling for voice inside
the terror of the dark through a throat engorged with agony,
attempting to feel a horizon and go
beyond surrendering
to fury.

The chain of the lamp swells inside her hand as she pulls, daring
the ominous darkness.

To escape from a nightmare will not be easy,
unless she burns the bed.




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*Bigsmile*"Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies."- Ralph Waldo Emerson *Smile*
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