The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

Part XXIII

January 1, 1999,
I moved from my home,
left with only my clothes and books,
slept on a futon mattress on a cold, drafty floor,
choked on tears and phlegm, coughed and
wished myself dead every single waking moment;
I swallowed just enough pills to sleep,
and sleep,
and sleep,
and sleep,
until that day I woke up –
paralyzed and strangers had to carry me from blackness,
to something I was told is called daylight.
Damn near blinded me…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 6 AM

2 thoughts on “The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

  1. I love poems that are born from a place that only gives a reader a sense of the true depth where it came from. This is one of those poems. Good job.

  2. I’m not sure that I would be able to write any other way than from the place inside me where the spin art machine is…pour the colors in and let it turn until the swirls look perfect. Most of the time I am using blacks and grays, but it is okay.

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