Poem — Old Lass

I Hold Myself To Me; A Writer’s Poem To You

A Retrospection Of Times In The Feat — Knowing Myself; Daring you all on by the fancying images of feast and dare.

I have myself to me — By the melding and parting Of the meeting of seas;

Practiced, is the hearing to be Overhead by the right kinds of Fancying brotherly ties —

My womanhood is cross, To slap the interjection, whereby looseness Robs me of repeatable days —

I have myself to me — I recall casting my own defeat, Holding dearly on;

Thick in the retirement, Fast is my own envy, I tease you all on With the most fantastical of imagery —

I hold myself to myself — By man, that exuberant thing, In the closing of hours;

I think of that, of that man — Lost utterly, in his own life, What they always said was his own —

Lost evermore, never to rejoice, Yet he remains firm in my imaginations; Is this what you’re searching for, when you come to me?

I have myself to me — I think of meat; smearing — That fletching hue of a thing;

I show myself to myself — That Caroligaian, ’tis a depressed Sonnet, Bedeviled altogether, in that opening bed.

I hold myself to myself — Fetching the likelihood of them, Never did they have a chance for such a feat.

Never did I catch myself thinking of that — ’Tis my cry — what use to cry, when only Crying soaks the ample bed to rest?

I hold them by — With this hubris of song; poem, aye — The peddle of refined words, it so seems —

Yet the spine was severed years therefrom The cutting of ties, divine; So sanguine was my turn —

I pitch upon the blinkard images of me — All that importance paid, to the poet, Must be in the accidental catching of that livable, Exchange in words penned — hearing just then.

I’m caught and conformed by this tidy figure— Little as it stands by, tomorrow, it shan’t be so Forthwith, in that stance, you hear also —

Ever was it the accidental thing — To repent, I throw that;

Ever was it the accidental thing — All of this, yet here you are;

Ever is it now, I suppose to be this — Yet by the price, I wonder if they think they should;

They have Her now — By the physio and the doctor; They have Her now — Thru’ the carpet and by the mental dome — They might just have Her now; That ‘Thy puppet’ upon yer string strung to the Domain.

I hold yourself beat, to the striding of the beat —

You must too! Envious of that spot, I can’t rid myself why —

In all my art, I prance upon the words, An image-rich however, it’ll remain to you. To what it cost me —

I pull myself to me — And hold by, dear lass, The tides are catching up.

I have myself to me — By the melding of that, Meeting O; fine sea.

I have myself to me — Becalmed, that memory said, Whispered with the utterance of humor only known too few—

I hold myself to myself — Dearly softly, as the changing course continues, Definitely, inflicting me, without sound tho’ —

In the same manner as trusts, That adjust and are becoming of me — Insues me too —

I wouldn’t allow such a vowel, To be heard as such a thing, As they hold and fugue amongst The unrevealing of all my fine things.

I won’t cry aloud in a manner that Frightens the unhurt away — Yet ever am I there;

To all the fine poetic notions — The endless auditions stifled By all familiar faces — By the heaving of adoration; Fine poetry is just — Is just like that — The line between the futile and what is Just in repose, responding — The freedom that cavitates, That is our art.

The perfect tenderness sold As their tenderloins of my Drooping of the clammy breast, Coming to swarm on my Old, Swan to sea, as the droplets find themselves, In that fine shimmy of their game.

I reek of imagery — caught am I, Playing the dress, Nippling the dancing breast!

Charm them upon the permeable oceans Of my words — That endless retelling of a thing like truth. Always is there a blemish, That cannot bear to hide. But trust me always refining it to suit!

I have myself to me — By the melding and parting Of the meeting of seas; I march on, ever am I loving her!

I hold myself to myself — Say, that teaching was O; O, so shined! Shingle and dined — I think that it was, Hilariously, upon that sand, That ever so was me.

I have myself to me — And tell it was so; Heavenly, I dared it all so.

COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER

LOVE HAS NO HORIZON:

The Curation; Our Publication:

A TRUE GAME OF SOLITARE:

As ever, Dear Reader.