"How could I live
without metaphors?

To call things by their names,
not to drown in longings,
not to color them,
to make shapes less painful?"^

><<><
this quest, this verse curses
my drifting senses. now all attentions,
the outlined shapes that haunt, daunt,
lacking ****** substance,
just wafers and wines symbolic,
to defer away the many pointy fingers,
hands of nothing but forefingers
aiming exactly at  our temple's
temple
stating most factually,

J'accuse

shadows are metaphors,
images meta-stasizing
into what ever

you believe,
what
you think you meta~need to see,
in the dark late of the light of our soul's night,
so you right of,
you write of
seasonal changes,
hardly illusory,
failing to note, that when you wrote:

How could I live without metaphors?

the answer metaphorical+historical,
for the question is only
rhetorical

for you know~knew

that once we know the name to everything,
we will no longer want them,
but only to write of them in
idealized metaphors
so we can sleep~dream on,
perchance
while the
restoration of the imagination
is our brain sourcing
new things
that seek, crave,
to satisfy our urgent needs

to describe, define, our every fractional moment

Tell me, what is poetry?
I don’t know
or maybe I do, but don’t understand.

I’ve been writing for three years,
thinking it was all about rhyme,
about making words flow
fast or slow.

But I’ve read enough now
to know it doesn’t have to be that way.
So how do I write?
What should I write?
I want someone to read,
someone to like it.
But is that what it’s all about?

Once, in tears, I wrote a poem—
and it was better than the rest.
Was it the feeling,
the raw emotion,
that gave it life
it never had before.

Maybe poetry
is just the sound of my soul
asking to be heard—
with questions
we can’t stop asking.

My heart is for stray cats,
searching for shelter
until something better
comes along.