Firestone Friday: Poem XVIII

You speak

different languages

between

the morning

and

the night,

and I love

the way

my name

sounds

in every

single

one

of them.

(Happy Valentine’s Day.)

Movement

With a thousand poems,

I try to tell you

how I feel about you,

but, with every failed lyric,

it’s clearer that

my passion

can only be expressed

with movement.

Firestone Friday: Poem XVI

We’re all full of holes,

trying, desperately, to become wholes —

swelling, inserting, filling ourselves

with things as dispensable as they are harmful,

and we look over our

needles, nicotine, nudity, and nights

only long enough to wage

merciless judgments against

our neighbor’s holes-filler.

Strong Language by Logan Gorg

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Mocked

Can you beleive

how they mock me

for the way that I speak?

“Logan uses big words now.”

There’s nothing so

beautifully individual

as one’s pattern of speech,

the path to self-expression,

the words that hang on your lips,

whispering to the listener

the secrets about who you are

and where you’ve been.

It’s ok if I’m sad,

but weird if I’m morose or sullen.

It’s normal if I’m happy

but too much if I’m euphoric.

I won’t reduce my language

just so that you like the sound if it.

 

(I don’t, and would not, hurl insults at another’s self-expression, and I won’t carry shame — or ignominy, if you don’t mind — for mine.)

Touchstone Tuesday: Poem IX

I edit my work,

but not early

as often

as my work

edits me.