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By: Michelle Palmer

About The Poem

A complex poem about love depression and not feeling excepted and colours and numbers spring into my mind.

The Poem

I walk through grey hayfields the clouds flitter and mutter
into long silent sentences made up not understood my
unhappy truths were many but what have I learned by the
gloating playing harp they still weep on and play. havoc like
when I was a teenager on a happy high they lie deep in the
grey ebbing scenes of time and propriote at my thawing sigh
the same catching remedy they hide behind the dirty head
quarters and sniff your life out as if you were a bad choice
like the heavy thawing night they breeze past trying to latch
on to some small life the past experiences they find your
odour hidden on my deep seduced mouth the pores of my
senses hide these impossible conquests’ the face brutally
cold and grey with nocturnal fetchers . stretching far deep
away from the cushions which control my tormented cry they
hide the continual contact away from my past mislead
communication resulting in a muted complaint exploding
over a life time of regret the turmoil flutters through the hast
din at night dizzily recurring through a threatened dream you
crushed my realm of existence and pattered through my
prehistoric failings they flew the bare imagination of ruined
images and bad dealings phase through my past life’s learnt
patterns are not repeated they claw through the blind.
boarders of love retort and mulling on my upper cool lip the
sore sting of sour grey nutural numbers which play on my
memory radar in my mind they camouflage my new start
and snip my portion of happiness was in your wisp it cools
and glows on your upper lip and bit like a bee on my thawed
chilled weeping wrist the voice controlled my pace of heavy
mind set was on. your centre calling my sweet all heavy
headed teasing the blind in your admired love a companion
to me you drove a deal for a raw union around a sharp cruel
word you used the sound of red eights claw through my
mind set and blood pools of roses laying still in my mind
worshipping the mill that wore you away was a past tempary
meal to a plattatonic end cupping my lip with excitement
was your prickling touch.

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