Connie Song

Lather your words
rinse and repeat,
the world has left you somewhat bruised
and your blisters have departed in the lurch.

Injured is not how you define yourself.
Brave is what you wake up to
with your morning coffee.
Poetry finds its serenity
woven within your chaos,
your mind unraveling
truth and lies,
and weaving them
into words,
that reduce you to tears
as you air-fry what remains of your reflections
on a typical Tuesday afternoon.

Thank you to Katie Michaelson and the editors of The Daily Cuppa for providing no sweeter a place to read, write and create on Medium.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Words dangling from the poet’s margins
like the mistress of the manor unfurling pearls
before the pampered cat.

How I am attracted to the subtle complexities
of poetry,
I swim through oceans
and fly mid-air
exploring galaxies that exist merely in one’s imagination.

Words are the butter on my toast,
the morning dew on blades of grass,
words sing the melody of the lark,
the bump of thunder,
the beauty of the crimson sunset.
Words dally in the shadows
and are cat nip for the soul.

© Connie Song 2022. All Right Reserved.

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You can hear poetry creep up the stairs
when everyone else is fast asleep,
you can feel poetry in the breeze
that falls upon the pillowcase.

Poetry hears the beating of your heart,
the exhale of your breathing,
poetry will try its best to bite your soul
while its words are softly bleeding.

You are different from the rest
you taste the poetry that feeds the nest,
you are inspired by words
that others toss to the side
unveiling what others are inclined to hide.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Poetry

Image by vac1 on iStock subscription, framed on Canva

When I found words of poetry
flowing down an open sewer
I could hardly bear the stench,
since I always thought that poetry
would smell something like wildflowers
and nothing like a trench.

When I found poetry
beneath the magnolia tree
planted near the red oak deck of my back porch,
it stunned and pierced me so
the squirrels heard my gasps
and knew not where to go.

Since I found poetry
I was no longer afraid of the dark
nor the dragons and demons
who found a new place to park
their reclusive dreams on what was once
considered exclusive private property.

© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.

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Connie Song

Connie Song

Reader | Writer | Poet | Medium Top Writer | Editor of Purple Ink | Coffee Fanatic | Twitter Connie Song 10.