It Is Not Comfortable

Fri, 07/08/2016 - 22:21 -- jmb818

Poetry is not comfortable

like the humming of a mower

on an autumn morning,

nor is it the sounds of the birds

outside my bedroom window.


It always has been 

a missing tooth that my tongue runs over,

no matter how funny it feels.


It is the hangnail

itching to be picked,

though I know the consequences

of such an action.


It is raw,

and it is emotional,

and it is 

u n c o m f o r t a b l e.


But it is these qualities

that make it vital,

for how may I ever find comfort

unless I learn to do without?

This poem is about: 


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