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Bad Poetry

There is something growing inside me and I don’t know what it is yet.

It feels like gummy creosote and spiny cactus leaves, thick green crunchy aloe ooze

It feels like making a right because that canyon road looks interesting (even though my map says to go straight)

It feels like stubborn succulents persisting in cracked and crumbling earth

I don’t dare to hope that it’s a sunrise.








Got the pic here.

4 comments:

Marion said...

I don't believe there is such a thing as bad poetry. I love your poem, especially the last line.

Blessings,
Marion

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." ~Anaïs Nin

chopsuey said...

I love Bad Poetry and have missed it so!

Ashley said...

Is that thing growing inside you a baby?

I've totally taken your bad poetry and turn it into water cooler fodder. Please continue to blog more frequently, it makes me feel like I'm hanging out with you.

Phoenix said...

Ah, but you see, sunrises only exist where there's hope...

Glad to see you blogging again! Sorry I'm a little late to the party :)

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