It Doesn't Have To Rhyme

It's important (for me) to touch on what is human, and not pretend that my awareness has magically constructed a wall of infallibility around what I call "my life". Knowing the self and maintaining the awareness I deem so crucial means looking objectively at all aspects of life from a continuously fresh perspective. This continuity results in an increasingly profound expression that is alive and often manifests (again, for me) in written form. I maintain a slight aversion to the idea of obtaining "enlightenment", for when it is known one immediately realizes it is not a gain of anything, but more an acknowledgement of the simple, ordinary "isness" that is the miracle we call life. Life, and all that implies for each of us, is itself the treasure. We must stop seeking perfection and understand that everything is perfect just as it is. It could be no other way. It is with this attitude I share my foibles and accomplishments through this medium called poetry, knowing all along it's just a game I'm playing with myself. My perfect/imperfect self.

It Doesn't Have To Rhyme by Robert R. Ciccolini

She said it doesn't have to rhyme:

But what she really said was when you get
done with that thing I hope there's something
that sings to how you want me..

How you think I'm beautiful, how your not
just using me like some machine, how
you've seen that I'm more than some
whore, than some door to a place you
deface then depart.

She said it doesn't have to rhyme,
but what she really said was sometimes
she feels so close that between her and me
there's no gap. That I bridge something from
her heart to a place she could never
retrace. That the map gets lost
in the dark woods of facade
sometimes, so real she can feel
the chill yet she hangs in for the
glimpse before the undertow
clenches fast. She so wants to
believe one day the waters will
recede and I'll bleed true from
the start.

She said it doesn't have to rhyme
but she knew it would just a bit.
She knew I was hurt sometime so bad
that the loneliness stung just a bit less
than the guess.

So I suck it back in when I see
it's getting too real, when I can
feel too much and the fear comes back
so solid that it looks better to me
than the leaf on the wind,

because who knows if it's
gonna drop into the well or
waft to the hairs of the intrepid child,
dancing.

She said it doesn't have to rhyme.

And then she said goodbye.

tonsorman@yahoo.com