Poetry is stupid.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.