Poem by Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim
Really on the level
Poetry doesn’t have real levels.
Because it doesn’t just emanate from the brain…
It’s the imagination of a small heart…
Or a sad soul in grief.
Poetry is born from a few words thrown away
Here and there to love, hate, share…
The only level that I lend him
It’s the one at the daisy level.
Poetry, rhyme, prose… It doesn’t matter.
Feet and verses always carry
Not everyone, all the time, sure.
But make you dream of his pretty open planet.
Lucidity is only a blind observation.
Otherwise I aspire to reach his state.
Writing about everything and nothing without failing
To give words to a simple sigh…
I say… To hell with conventions
The only thing that counts in poetry is passion.
Let the detractors take off in a tractor
If their snail judgments scare the hell out of them.
The words, the texts are touching
Not always happy little songs
But generate sincere tremolos
So if there’s going to be a level…
They’re all on the highest floors
Cause poems are hitting me in the face
Like many others here… Elsewhere…
Thank you for filling in my color gaps.
© Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim