Ode to a poet

Ode to Amber
Her poetry trickles like tree sap.
Trickles past our minds and hearts
leaving us wanting no more
I speak with no hate or ill, but still..
Her mothers day poem bled of physicality, writing because she can,
a mothers day poem not speaking of love but of drips, of gashes and staples. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just as is.
Brittany, a wide eyed spider and something about pollock blood.
Extreme. Erratic. A trainwreck you want to keep reading.
Almost spontaneous, words here, words.... there.
words.
words
words
Because she can.
But
Must she?
Blood, gore, random words that sound flowery.
Like a description in a novel but no feeling.
Flowery and yet ghastly. Like the wall paper on a cheap hotel wall.
Yet somehow appealing. Like that wound on your leg that is seeping and gross. Yet you keep looking.
You shouldnt. Because its bad.
But you do it anyway. Why?
And why does Amber write?
Why do I?
Why does a rusty gate swing when theres no breeze?
Because it can.
Somehow. Why?
But it does. Perhaps it is broken.
Broken like the words. The words.
Oh the words of a girl with a golden name.
Words and more words. Words that should never have been married.
Like your hillbilly aunt and her bloke. The one she met at Bingo.
Yes thats right.
Tangents. Even while making sense. Too much sense. Harsh, overtly honest and inappropriate.Sense. Still, the tangents.
ANd abrupt endings, so abruptly.... Ending