(Just a little something I wrote a second ago... I thought of the first three lines earlier and wanted to write a poem. I haven't posted anything on here in a while.
Ummm, please don't say anything about the punctuation and stuff. It's supposed to be that way.)
I’ve fallen
in love with these barrier strings
that callous my finger-
tips into the blackened wood,
tips me into sounds,
tips me to tropism.
Who-?
And the layered,compressed,strung-tight
hairs sound off like the
siren of the location, where I am
to find them, and answer,
“I am who.”
In adoration,
I hold it in my hand.
As a token of my immense relief,gratitude,
I brush cheeks with it, feel
its skin quiver with hums
and murmurs of promises.
In climax,
the faraway digits on hand, with fingertips,
are drawn down by gravity,
by a race, and in the pocket,
we are in the height, and one in silence,
one aloud, we. harmonize.
