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(poems go here)RECOGNITION
By: Megan Quick

I can glide for a time
Above my wretched candor
And I don’t have to see broken faces
Reflected in my own.

Terrible still, the wretchedness
Anchored to my chest
Feeding me my blood
And my battered language,

As others go forth
And tears come to they’re eyes
Borne from that moment
It eluded me yet again.

Tragic for my pursuit
Because, I frantically pull from my own head,
Ignoring, or disengaging
All those things that birth poetry

And isn’t this poetry?
Isn’t this inspiration?

Simplicity renders it?
No that discredits it
That cheapens it
But in my hands things cheapen.

It’s not simplicity
Is it peace? That strand, tied
To the heart, drawing forth to a loved one
Or a formidable sky, (whether a threat or promise)

Is it perfected translation,
Borne out of peace
Crashing into moments of tumult?
It’s the resurfacing,

Translation is not perfected
It’s begotten by strong gentle hands
Those who can wring out of words,
the truth of their essence

They catch me
And I soar in the wake of their words,
Laughingly changed,
Beyond recognition of me.


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