Monday, September 03, 2007



I write with my right hand;
articulate and methodical
Ink weaves itself, like silk threads
against a virgin leaf.

What's right feels wrong,
legible lines define
neatly drawn words
that fence in the honesty; truth
is confined like stallions
in orderly corrals.

Secrets never unleashed
sowed only in the unconscious,
as infertile seeds that release
prosaic verse, lacking passion...
desert sun-tinged sands,
dry and useless.

I use my left hand-these days,
speaking aloud thoughts
that never dared
to dance from my lips.

Prowling promises; as secrets
emerge, purging my past
of decadent pleasures,
sordid schemes seep
through crevices,
as unseen touches
that haunt in restless sleep.

Poetry surges;
across vacant pages-animated;
unfortunately the words
are much too sloppy to be read.

Elizabeth DiBenedetto - the poetprncess


Blogger Frank Baron said...

I like it.

September 13, 2007 3:40 PM  
Blogger >'' said...

Isn't it great? I'm glad she let me borrow it to post. It's a keeper.

September 13, 2007 4:12 PM  

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