I do not write my poems,
My poems write me
these boundaries of my body these fingertip extremities are not quills and this liquid velvet this lifeless blood is not raven-colored ink, rather my skin is pages and pages of palpable pulp,
deacrinated tentacle tree branches and fiberless roots convulse and my metal mind seizes sadness and manufactures paper out of the trees growing inside of me
Titanium oxide is extracted from my black eyes while wax drips off of my eyelashes into liquid pools of ebony
My mistake of a mind imprisons abjection and mass-produces ink out of the elements of my soul’s curtain-drawn windows
words and words and words and words fill the spaces between the pores where my hair follicles protrude
Diction dilemmas dip their quills into my eyelids and peirce my forehead until I am scarred by POETRY
Asphyxiating abnormalities write themselves into existence and reproduce in my skull, the fissures of my brain are their nests
Seven hundred million two dimensional letters float into my blood and disperse and and feed on these crimson channels and converge to form three dimensional words to form still increasingly multidimensional sentences and stanzas and POEMS until I am a library of impossible holes in existence, an impossible amount of existence.
I do not write my poems into existence
My poems are my existence.