by Obe
the night is tall and i am short my body lays numb against the white sheets of my wall and no one knows the passion of the pen except maybe the poet who hangs herself to dry when the rains run inside walking talking streets alive smiles conveyed in metaphor similes that smile and tears that never really cry and death is followed by rebirth against the purity of an unpure page and they believe that white is pure and black is sin dividing by tones and hues as i divide by frowns and smiles the night is tall and i am short reality is the space that we name the images against the white sheets of my wall call it narcissism if you wish these mirrors that i write through but extend yourself maybe this generation X is a little more that self love call it self truth since love is an akward reality we can't always put a name to the night is tall and i am short one night the sky will stretch and make room for me one night sleep will come gentle and rock me with a lullaby and i will dream the dreams i dream of when the night is tall and in between i just am. |
Obe usually performs her poetry with her guitar.