Instead of Critique

 Do not pick apart my verse
My words have no more meaning than
They felt right
My poems weave a tangled web of songs
But my metaphors have no hidden depth
I do not wait, lonely
At the centre of my sticky trap
Made lyrical by my turn of phrase
I do not wait for morning dew and
Golden light to tell the world
I have gentle beauty beneath my
Venom
I do not pour my precious time into
An ode to gossamer charm
With the knowledge that
Once its purpose is served
It will lay torn to silken tatters
Do not pick apart my verse
Nor tell me why I wrote each jumbled line
You do not know
You were not there
Instead
Tell me how it made you feel
Which line ensnared your mind
Made your heart beat faster
Your eyes mist
Your skin thrum
My poems are not for lessons
They are for living
 
Elinor Austin

Categories: Poetry

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