Digital collage by Lady K
THE HEART OF A TIN WOODSMAN
The heart is not an endless reservoir
The heart is a rusty tank
The heart has ventricles
The heart has rusty ventricles
The heart creaks with belief again
The heart creaks with disbelief
The heart creaks with suspension of belief
The heart is a rusty tank
The heart is a rusty tank with leaks
Poetry is the word of the world come to the poet
Poetry is the word come to you
Talk is weak tea
Poetry is a message from Gods
Poets are messengers from God
Poetry is the gelatin of your ego mold
Poetry is a jail you pour your soul in concrete
The best part of you is a jail
The best part of you is locked up
The best part of you is a thumbprint in your head
There is a ghost of yourself of which you just have a thumbprint
A ghost of yourself of which you just have clues
A ghost of yourself that leaves intimations in the falling of your whims
Who is your best self but a self who condemns
Who is your best self but an infinitely refined judge of an asymptote
Who is your best self but something that is touching
some walls of which you have only intimations and whims
-Lady K, December 2010