I Try To Make Sense Poem by Adora Williams

I Try To Make Sense

Peeling fruits, the nights I go through
Without blinking an eye
Just to catch the perfect blue light
From the blue hour on the leaves
I kept from that moment when part of me was asleep
Peeling oranges under the fig tree

I'm just trying to make sense
But the sense doesn't want to make me
So I fail on reviewing my past selves
On b-sides that no longer exist
Or have been asleep
Since the blue gold got high

Rewrite in new tropes
On the tropico line
The stranger who was I
Forgotten B sides

Forgotten frames of mind

The unwritten book I revere — masterpieces
Life must feel flawless
But flawless isn't life

I try to make sense
But the sense never makes me
Not even to myself or the stranger I was

When watercolour calmed the night
I had evoked the oil to steadfast time
But I decided to dismiss it

I'm just trying to make sense
From somewhere greater than here
But the sense doesn't want to make me

I have a lot of b-sides
Some not even discovered
Or the ones who saw didn't want to try
Between my lines, all letters are blurred

The birth of spring and the eternal return
Of the spotful mind on the plot twist line
Charcoal drafts on metaphors too complex for words

I contradict myself as the daisy was reborn
Chrystal of my life

Some b-sides of me are just meant not to be
Especially when watercolour calmed that night
And saved the lovemaking of lovers
Through the violet flame

That b-side of me was cold, cold blue
The most violet it would become is carmine
But I've never tried

I don't want to stain the cold, cold blue
I've lived to become

In nine lives times nine stanzas

The return of the daisy
The sense that doesn't want to make me

I try ancient maxims
But who am I to become immortal?
I'm here for the last life of tropical
Unpeeling oranges onto the ground
Under a muddy fig tree

I try ancient dits
But I'm no one to reiterate it

For I need it to be interchangeable
Attainable in water
So I can always modify

The stranger that was I
In other frames of mind
Under other b-sides
I gave the oil
Not to steal the sense
I'm trying to make
On the rebirth of the daisy

In a never still life

Imprinted on the ribbon
My last orange slice

Wednesday, May 25, 2022
Topic(s) of this poem: confessional
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