I read this poem today by a friend of mine and thought it was wonderfully emotive in its confessional and obsessive nature. I don’t know much about writing or poetry at all but I found the nakedness and vulnerability in this very beautiful.
Crowblack NightA surge in me tonight, a push of passion and hunger glimpsed again worthy cause. . It stuck in me, blocked the first retch of a violent purge a warning, my bird ideas scatter. . Leaves me pathetic, failed and useless, yet feeds my fears fat till they soar, a joke, a cliche, a no one, nothing. . The failure must be the repetition, the lack of learning I know this road every crack and I trip, a clown at the first. . Nothing cool will do, nothing light, no sneering quip. Something dark, drawn from me, unashamed for I am one for a grand gesture. Stories. . A stolen moment as lovers walk softly through the orchard at midnight magnetic pull . Urgent and inescapable guilt, there is truth in it, god sized, imbued with an inky blackness. A secret squirms beneath all our skins. . She is writing lines. Trust and relief. Released. Pounding and living. The trivial blurs. They mistake administration for living, she knows better. . In the dark with his silk and satin no mirror glare or sun to reveal he is beautiful, exquisite, false. . Please break your promise and let me bathe in the milky hurt. Toy with my heart, let its’ artist weep from me. . She soothed me tonight, saved me from pain. Rubbed my back until the retching had waned.