the doorknob was loose
the doorknob to my room
through that round hole in the door
my secrets ran into the world
into the lives of complete strangers
(beautiful strangers, but STILL, UNknown)
the strangers were whores
the strangers were sick
I watched them every night through
that round hole in the door
to find them
doing absolutely nothing
reading, making Love and drinking tea
at midnight
(I wrote poems about their actions,
about a thousand pages; did’nt sell
one copy)
the poems were nothing spectacular
the poems did’nt really exist
though being a voyeur, I fabricated
a lie of being a worthless poetess
who wrote a bunch of poems that
no one ever read
(maybe at the library, where all of the
books are dead)
written: March 14, 2010
Filed under: desire,desire,desire..., la vie poesie, life, poetry, regarding myself, Uncategorized
The Grass is Black/The Air is Pink 
I’m intrigued by this
I take that as a compliment, thank you. And thanks for reading. š
OMG the first few lines had me…I stumbled upon your blog through the “Topic” of poetry, and I adore this poem. Your repetition is captivating. You paint with words in masterful strokes. I love it! I’m off to read more of your blog…
Thank you so much. And thanks for reading. Enjoy;)