Underneath the white

Bloom.2    I called my mom a few times before her death.
I left no message when she did not answer.
Some children would get angry with their mother,
But for what reason was the mystery for  me.

You write and write, and think about the writing.
And then you add and subtract, rewrite and edit.
You change lines and reverse stanzas in the midst
Of the feeling. But no one knows what is under

Neath the white. The loss is hard to see but we
Have no problem in feeling the heavy permanence.
We start to think about what was underneath the
White. Before the edits and revisions took over

The body of the thing. What was the rawness of
Words strung together in riffs and ragged runs.
Arrangements be damned. How did it splatter out
To start; all wiggling, bloody and crying, like us?


About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s