What is the feeling?
Are we obligated to look inside, to examine?
To see every thought as it arrives, with you in full expectancy
And wave it away,
As if it were a poison to the soul?
You, a poison to the soul?
On the outside, you appear heavy,
A shuffling sulk, a frenzy
But to me these were things I wasn’t seeing
I was seeing Expressive Intelligence,
And the way a face moves with ease
Accross a canvas twenty years past its time
And eyes that see
And eyes that see.
Don’t stare at me
Darling, don’t stare at me.
(But why, then, did I stare back?)
Copyright 2017 Golden Star Poetry