Woodsy the Performance Poet

I could still hear the voice jabbing in my ear, could still feel the sting of it even now:

“Write me something that makes sense of all this! Write that love of yours, so I can really feel it, even with the world the way it is!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you with the big heart… Show me.”

I couldn’t  hear this overgrown heart of which they spoke.  I couldn’t hear much at all beyond a noisy world’s assumptions,  feeding each other down familiar roads.  So I staggered off towards a place too far for me to walk…

a place to which no trains are running anymore…

a place that now seems to exist only in the fevered storm clouds of my imagination –

and I still didn’t know what to say.

Wherever you stand, the world flows with atrocities.

Wherever you stand, smiles are a hair-trigger away from dying.

Wherever you…

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