Bossetry. Enjoy.

Hey,

How's everything? Good, good. I'm just another unknown writer trying to put his 2 cents into something he enjoys. I never really wanted to be a published poet, I write for me and those close to me but who would ever turn down that kind of opportunity? I just think many writers out there are great, good, decent and such but not for publishing. Anyone has poetential. It's those that are born for it that ever reach it.

One thing other than poetry I enjoy is track, running is me. I use poetry to find a meaning for who I am and track as what I am. Doesn't make sense, but it feels right. That's all that matters, what feels right. Because anything in the world can make you smile or make you angry but it's those that feel right that matter.

Check you later,
Boss

The House- by Winfield T. Scott

When will violence come, when break me--
Make me at last cry out? What loss
Heavy to crack my personal sky? What
Failure darken to bring me staring?
What good thing, evil thing--come either--
Split me and let the frozen blood?

I hear beneath the wind, beneath
The leaves' skating on the ground,
My ancestor's hair growing, whispering,
A tide out of the old men's skulls:
Think it flicks me, teases my fingers,
Writhes at my ankles, rejoices and grieves.

I walk up the stairs and walk down,
Hear news of murder and confront my death:
Death--death--death of love--a shape
Rocking in a chair somewhere in this house,
Mirrors everywhere reflect me here
Going from room to room, lest I decrease.

If smaller, harder--then for what escape?
The sky grinning through the window
The hair furtive under the door--
What damnation damns me! And you:
I might speak of it and find it with you.
The air chokes my open mouth.

Haunted then? Caught? snagged up
In a web of lies? dreaming?
Many questions for you and no answers.
I dare not and I know not what I dare not.
Then this is mad? and black blood wants peace?
Come peace. Come violence. Come violent peace.