i can never tell you how displeased readers
are by that position the singular
moment when nothing makes any fucking sense
to them at all but only to a few brilliant pebbles
that soar across the night canvas unknown
to the dullards of academia
it is the ONLY reason i write; to express
self to those very few who HEAR ME.
the rest are noise and there is no time
for wasting one’s artistry on rigid brains
and stiff necked human-geese.
Then again, my imagination never demands
an audience of understanding but more
of an emotional receptivity.
A slumbering shadowy cloud-vignette
seeping from a tormented mind onto
freshly sliced paper cuts. This is the
color red screaming in a dying ink stroke.
:: 07-21-2017 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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