Here is a revision of a poem I wrote a few years ago. By revision, I mean that I completely rewrote it. Basically a new poem entirely. So maybe this is just a poem I wrote this week.
I begin to wonder about my words. Expression, self or otherwise, may be overrated; the worlds more than mere syllables screamed, whispered, otherwise articulated. Society says that actions can be trusted To solve my wordly worries; But it’s not terms, themselves, I doubt. It’s their falling out my mouth. Flurries in snowstorm, burying the land. Can’t I lie without speaking; storms can. So I’ll listen to the wind, and I won’t speak. Or even move, I’ll just stand.
