I'm sorry kid but no poetry today.
I'm cross legged in a room full of pictures
depicting the deflation,
the declination and deletion of a place that's derelict to me.
Can't stand it.
I'm sorry kid, but there ain't no poetry today.
I'm a boulder, a pillar, in the way of a structure
that wants to crash down above, pushes hard
this way and that, shoving my back
this is anger my friend. I'm seeing red.
So there's no poetry today.
You see, I'm not delicate with my words today.
I don't feel gentle, I don't feel kind
I don't want to tiptoe across puddles of water
I want to break the ice.
I want to scream so many things
that would only be a symptom, not a description
of everything that's screwed up.
I've tried, I've tried.
But I can't sing poetry because I've died.
There's a lacking soul in here kid,
been hibernating for too long
under a smothering winter that reeks of sickness.
“Dead, dead, dead,” The madness dances from across the room
and that laughter that is so loud inside
it's tearing my lungs
it's messing my eyes.
I'm seeing shadows
hiding behind the doors
I'm haunted
I'm torn
I'm wrecked
I'm displaced
I'm anger.
And to resist that calling, that faithful, honest calling
to break break break break break break break
everything.
To pick up the phone and say goodbye
To walk out the door and imply forever.
When I can't remember an entire summer
When I can't consider a newborn spring
When everything that makes sense disintegrates
and the only thing
the only thing
I hear
is
“destroy.”
There's no poetry kid, there never will be.
Poetry is the assumption of a picture,
it's lace
it's a window,
an image
a portrait or a landscape
what is this?
That's simply the point.
It is.
It says.
It does.
Everyone gets a little angry.
but I have to mute this.
This kind of recklessness
doesn't make for good art.
This kind of hopelessness
doesn't make for a good heart.
I'm resting.
The dragon sleeps.
Inside there's a monster.
But it's name is not “inevitable.”
