Homesick
A poem
Like grey clouded sequestered sun
the eye is shrouded
in an urban warehouse.
As if ashamed, colors surreal
repaint the dinge in ET hues,
giving too much sight to the blind.
Reds redder than blood of thousands
and blues a million sunny days
beam from plastic golden arches
and flat suns called Exxon.
Nostalgia of creek rushing and
woodpecker rhythm are
reborn into traffic swoosh
and car-shaking bass rap beats.
Smells of honeysuckle dew
and Mama’s fried chicken
are traded for ozone filled exhaust
and fragrance of fast food burgers.
In city hustle-bustle
senses torture
the simpler heart.
❤❤❤❤❤❤❤
I used to write a lot of poetry when I was younger and I don’t know why I stopped for so long. I do believe I’ll start writing more. There is something about poems that lift the soul.
