Erik Estabrook

Sensory Poem

by Erik Estabrook

We are supposed to grow in senses right?
Not grow old enough to see all our senses rebel.

We are supposed to learn about love and unity?
Not unlearn everything previously thought(including love and unity)

When the subject is the senses it should be about how bright and bold they are!
Its a turn of the spear, when your senses never fully develop,
Yet, they are loud in all the wrong areas,

When you can only hear the dog growl, only see the red of the scarf,
only get caught up in the panic, only want to leave but there’s no leaving,
and your mind only twists up its feelings.

Your senses aren’t connecting, this time I envy “normal” and it is
only in this time.
Gifts brought from within, an internal foliage, that blooms with lifes moments.

Sometimes whole picture thinking, othertimes way off-base.
Poems are my eyes and ears, but they shouldn’t be!
They should be above my level but they are my shrunken universe,

They are always a directive pointing one direction, saving my soul.
Keeping me from loving “normal” way more than it deserves.


Darkness, sparks wit, find your moral compass,

leaves shed their first skin,

becoming one with the Earth again,

Bloom and bloom again,

as people converse with angels

Sparking heavens fascinations


I see oceans mists and wondrous forests,

people with their habits and forces of reality,

but I look above it all and

find connection with lost poets and dead arts,

Gravitating a lunar orbit waiting for the stars calling,


A sister moon in fine space garments

she waves hello and goodbye at the same time,

and I am crushed,

because being tied to the Earth isn’t for me,


No cave fizzure, or stunning gas cloud formation can convince this is home,

we walk in and out, sometimes through glass doors,

All waiting to shatter, to be enveloped by forces not matter


This grows inside, my indignation,

On earthly souls and how they abuse aliens,

How they writhe and wither, slink and slither,

All matching wits that massacre beauty incarnate,

and the witless themselves they sneer and snicker taught by those before

that there can be no differences,


So I slink and snarl but to myself I whisper,

“This Earth, they think its everything in existence,

but I’ve been shown the world by my little star sister”


copyright 2013@Erik Estabrook


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