Posted in art, poetry, writing

Too Much

Too Much  They call it Pain Tolerance, measured in a threshold determined by the wearer, a number of fingers you can withstand before two hands shortfall the scale,  a 10 spectrum limit that fails to consider all the categories of this feeling’s complexity.  Am I at a 9 because I’m still breathing?  There’s a numbness beyond comprehension that confuses the brink of my endurance, as if the ache resides in negative space. an inverted sensation, the vast white surrounding the ink blotches  that could explain this intoxication. I changed the last word of this poem at least 6 times, and with each revision, I found new meaning inside my own lines. I implore you to take away your own interpretation. Sure, I wrote the poem, but the meaning is not absolute. What it means to you is just as significant as the reason I wrote it. I write poetry for me, but you read it for you. We’re equals in this process.

Happy Monday!!

–Leanne Rebecca

 

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Author:

Poetry and music.

8 thoughts on “Too Much

  1. Understanding pain does not mean I can feel it, so your words become pregnant with your pain alone while I am able to see the beauty of your creation.

  2. I understand the negative space of numbness. Before I decided to confront my pain, it was horrendous insomnia. I pushed so many thoughts away from my heart that my head strained with the sheer weight of that mysterious black box. I love your observation about poetry being interpreted by both writer and reader. No absolutes.

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