My crooked feelings run all along the pathways and byways
 and along the ways pick up
something unexpected…
The predicted has gone feral and that trail is crooked too,
following along a meandering river with no name.
Like a cottage with a leaning chimney and floors that marbles always roll down
and a cabinet door that swings wide open if not wedged with an old can of something.
My emotions have built a wall that leans lopsided around my heart 
and the roses twine through and mask
the untidy joinings.
But the disordered flowers still smell, 
the petals bendable sweetness,
and crooked windows let the light escape in patterns that captivate the audience
by their unexpectedness.
I can see the straight and narrow,
and its very tidy
it’s very well ordered,
and on paper I can see how it would look good,
perfection on a resume,
but the structured, the manicured and trimmed is not sustainable,
within my crooked world.


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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3 Responses to Crooked

  1. othermary says:

    I too travel a crooked path. Lovely extended metaphor.

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