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Bend me break me Breaking down is easy All I want is your words, Mysteries of our disguise revolve Circumstance will decide Nobody loves me It's true Not like you do, sonnets of faith and devotion, sweet not sour though
I really like the core of this, for it is the best of feelings to be dragged under the current, one’s consciousness held for ransom in such a powerful way when reading prose, be it poetic or fictional.
Doesn’t that strike you like someone who knows all your trigger points? We read em’ sure. We read every last word start to end again, and again. Alright I’m not telling it straight.
The truth is no loves your poems the same way that they love
the way your poems get them feeling.
Yes, they love the way you write it out of them,
how it drags them under the current,
and holds their consciousness for ransom!
How could they love your poems as much; When that feeling they get comes shooting from their viscerals roaring like a migration of butterflies, and birds, and bees bursting from the back of their throat – They’ve just got to fly
There is no time to stop and love your poems the way they must go out and catch every last winged creature that spewed forth into the wide opened mouth of the sky
No one loves your…
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Esme's Cloud 
This is very cool. When it comes to my poems… no one likes them. Full stop. I’m rubbish at poems.
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It is Portergirl, I don’t re-blog very often at all, but sometimes I am drawn by specific lines and verses. He has something here smiles.
As to your poems, I’ve never read any, so cannot say, but if you do write them, then they are within and wish to get out. Poetry writing is a great form of therapy, so even if no-one ever seen them but yourself, their existence is good for you. nods.
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I rarely enjoy poetry but this one really struck me, somehow.
Here is a poem:
I eat my peas with honey
I’ve done it all my life
It makes the peas taste funny
But it keeps them on the knife
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This is very gross. But that’s not to say bad, just bad to eat, you’ll be putting them on toast next! – looks aghast It reads like those penned by Mr Peter. J. Thomas, a chap with a gift for fast, odd and quirky verse, and I like it misses.
Personally I’d use maple syrup, leave the peas out of the whole game and add some pancakes.
YUM.
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Hello sonmi! Just swinging by the cloud to say thank you, and that I’m happy you enjoyed this enough for a reblog! – IV
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Well hello there becomingveritate, I did indeed, and also I welcome you to the cloud shakes his hand, most pleased you have joined us up here in the troposphere pours him a cup of tea and hands over a sticky bun
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Only when they touch a heartstring or kick in the bollocks are poems worthwhile…and in essence you are spot on…only the reader knows the answer! Fine words of yours there by the way!
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I nicked, ahem, I mean adapted, most of it off him, but shhh…I think I got away with it. (thanks Mike all the same)
And I agree re poems – we need hoisting by said strings, and/or sending that sack a swinging with force, because the very best of them make you feel keenly. The strength of the act itself more important than the type of the emotion gleaned – the jolt of it, the sheer clobbering strength. The blast. This is not to say tis all doom and gloom mind you at all, no, no, one’s heart may well be singing happily, and one’s bollocks may be…erm…well I’m not sure I’m in the best position to be describing the joyfulness of bloke’s balls and what they are akin to…soooo...(started off well, then completely lost it at the end, so bows, and pegs it stage left before the crowd notice).
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You should really lay this comment down as a poem…it would…maybe nominal tweaks…work rather well I think.
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I was thinking that as I wrote it actually. I’ll collect its bones and put them in some fertisier – see if some wordy life blooms.
Thank you for noticing Mike smiles.
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