by Ryan Nardi
I can close my eyes and ascend.
I can feel my body burst
but remain contained
and bubble up
into the sky.
I can wish and not think.
I can be in the moment and want it to stop.
I can look back on my mistakes and say "Hallelujah!"
But I'm a writer, and not worth a listen.
I form my constellations out of spit.
I can pour my fucking heart out
and you won't give a shit.
And that's OK.
Posted on 05/13/2014
Copyright © 2023 Ryan Nardi
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 05/13/14 at 01:10 PM|
personally, I give a good hang and crow about writers. How can I not, who pour out their hearts? Such as are worth more than mere listening, but something deeper and larger scoped.