Another stanza, another, empty poem

Another line of cliche sorrows and oh

Don’t forget a splash of self-hatred and a

Sprinkle of age old, seasoned, melancholy.

How many words will it take

How many conscientiously polished

Lovingly carved, painstakingly painted

Smiles and rueful laughs will it take

For you to realise my love there is, no, end.

This won’t end, you won’t find

Your soul or your peace in hollow

Worthless words that you purge from

Your heart and- smear onto paper

Poets are lonely, where did I read that?

You don’t cry, you bleed silent agony

Into ink, into words, into poetry

You scar page after page with your

indecipherable rage at this universe

And you tarnish another pearly white sheet

With your coal black pain and silenced

Tales of lonely, lonely days wasted by-

Desperately scribbling, madman letters

Frantic to understand, the millions of

Atoms, nerves, bone, flesh that is

Pathetically, tragically, you.

And you knife away at your thoughts with

A pen in a homicidal attempt to

Slaughter the hurt inside and bury them under

Empty words and barren phrases

Poetry will not teach you to love your

Jagged edges like razor blades or your

Missing parts to the enigma that is well,

Yourself. Poetry is your hideaway from the

Ugly, ugly truth that you my love,

Don’t know who you are at all

So you continue to bleed in ink,

Cry in words and bruise on pages.

But this? Is just another stanza,

Another, empty poem.