i can’t seem to write poetry deep and soft and emotive. i can’t seem to do anything with my splintered hands and my lazy blue eyes.
i can’t find the beauty
in words;
no one reads my words to find the beauty in them as well.
i can’t seem to recite poetry off my tongue and into
my brain cavities when
i sleep with my lulled anxiety. i don’t understand how
life can be beautiful from in these cell blocks.
you can’t read poetry in vacant reveries
with deadbeats and
coffee and midnight mental breakdowns.
i can’t find poetry in my bones embedded deep beyond
my unfamiliarity.
you can’t find poetry
in centuries of instinct
or in your skinned knee; unless you see words in forms that people don’t know and can’t comprehend, therefore i am assuming you, as the reader, can’t
find poetry in the worst types of things because i have before,
so what
am i even rambling about anymore?
maybe poetry can’t even
be found
in the bones,
it’s in the soul.