I rarely write poetry anymore. It’s been a long time. I write a lot of lyrics, but for some reason I have completely stopped writing poetry. Which makes this post all the more strange because here’s a poem I wrote last night during the last fifteen minutes before midnight. Your interpretation is as good as mine!
A partial print
Tiny crooked paths, cut and twisted, half extended to nowhere
Obstructed by the partial print
Which leads us back to a partial heart
A partial direction
A partial urge to partly know what right becomes us
In the deadness of the night
A full print
Would reveal itself too candidly
A gaudy reminder of the obsolescence of our will
A tawdry reminder showing off our childish traits
Unable to make decisions on our own
A kowtowing puppet to a Powerfuller than I
No. A full print cannot navigate a partial world.
Partial people need partial prints.
Half-truths and hidden doorways.
Forked roads and overgrown hearts.
Back country dirt paths to nowhere.
Dead branches on live trees.
Partial people need all of the partial print.
But no more.