"Don't you know?
Poetry ain't my thunder today,"
I tell them.
It ain't my muse.
It doesn't fill me with sounds and suppositions and beautiful, beautiful melancholy today,
No.
No,
It hurts me.
Stabs me,
No,
Rolls me like dough in it's
maleable, hardened hands.
You
Are weak.
I
Am strong,
It says.
It snears,
A lion lurking over it's rounded and bloodied prey.
No.
Poetry ain't my friend today,
Friend.
Poetry won't save me.

Not today.