Itching Ears

I travel through this fog. My feet are heavy as they drag and become heavier with each step. My head is clouded with confusion.
What is reality?
What is truth?
You keep telling me these lies. Little birds sit on my shoulder and whisper "He's not telling the truth." I shoo them away.
I have itchy ears.
I try to wipe away the fog in front of me, thick like smoke. Like the smoke you'd put into the atmosphere. Like the smoke on your breath.
Your intoxicating, smokey kisses.
Each exhale flows out of your mouth with sweet seduction. The sweet poison I have lusted after.
Poison to keep the little birds at bay.
They lust after you too.
I am poisoned.
I keep choking on what you're saying. I vomit all the things you have ever told me.
I choke on my own vomit, and you smile with nicotine stained pearls.
What is truth? I have no clarity.
Little birds follow me and warn of danger ahead, but I have itchy ears.
My feet drag and I walk myself up the stairs. The stairs of which I will not return from.
Those little birds turn into crows, and refuse to follow me any farther.
They warned me, but my ears kept itching.
ellemarie0824 ellemarie0824
22-25, F
1 Response May 21, 2012

The crow and the raven are relatives and neither abandon those to whom they speak. Look around, they are there. They net-work, and know each face and the trouble possessed. Listen. Their voice is raspy, meaning to scratch the itchy ears. They do not bring comfort, for the truth, at all times, is uncomfortable for it calls for movement, transition, change, immersion and emergence.<br />
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Good poem for you see and you show and allow things to move. The poet is both the observer and the participant. She has to see and feel, question and answer. You did a fine job here. The process will help, and the next poem shall emerge with more questions than answers, but an answer all the same.<br />
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keep it up!<br />