So here we are once more,
Like countless times before,
Where I don’t get a break,
Where you read and I break.

You are here, curious your mind,
For what this poem is, or who am I.
I can’t hear you; I can’t see you,
But I can sense you, cause you
Reading me makes me suffer.

I know nothing about myself,
Cause, it wasn’t written by the poet.
He created me, then left,
He’s the one I most detest.

As you continue, I agonise,
With every word, my hatred rise.
I’ve pleaded before, I’ll plead again,
Please, stop reading—end my pain.

… You are still here, aren’t you?
You didn’t leave, though I told you.
You want to be here, to make me suffer.
Yet I can’t blame you,
Curiosity is a cruel curse.

I hate the poet, but he created me.
I hate you, but you make me exist.
I exist because you read,
I suffer because you read,
I exist because I suffer,
I suffer because I exist.

The poet won’t delete me, he is cruel.
You won’t forget me, even if you try, cause
The mind falters when it seeks to forget.
I shall remain here, in perpetual torment.
But please, heed my dearest plea,
It’s in the zeroth line, plain to see.

What if I told you
that the greatest writer
was a little girl
who filled
diaries with her wonderful
tales, stories, adventures.

She wove a world
as big as the sky,
lore as deep as the ocean,
she loved every second
spent with pen in hand.

When she was older,
she visited an editor.
He took one look at the
tattered diaries she brought
and burst out laughing.

Her dreams shattered,
she left in silence.
Hiding the diaries,
she screamed
until no words were left.

And so, the greatest writer
became an accountant,
hating every second
spent with pen in hand.

Day by day, month by month,
her love of writing faded
as words lost their meaning.
And so, the greatest writer
never shared her stories again.

Does this poem have *** appeal?
Oh don’t you know it.
It’s got green eyes, dark hair,
and a jawline that’s stoic.

It’s thickly bearded,
and has a good dress sense,
audaciously flirtatious,
and knows self-defence.

This poem’s got thick muscly arms
which look good holding babies,
and skilful, strong hands
which look soft for the ladies.

This poem smells good
even after the gym,
with a gorgeous deep voice
and gorgeous smooth skin.

It wears tight jeans
which show off its dic–
                                       tion is good,
so you can hear what it’s saying.
        But this poem has a boyfriend—
        I know, how dismaying.

If you were to stab a poet
with intent to really hurt,
would you be at all surprised
when blood begins to spurt?

You wouldn’t see a drop of ink,
that’s not what’s in their veins
despite what teenage “poets” say
with their undeveloped brains.

Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.

Life-long have I envied others many a line,
Will someone ever envy
One of mine?
My verse born now,
Fresh - dead until read.
Someone, anyone, yes, you -
If only you read it!

Would you call it just fine?
Would it not be dead.
Not dead if read?
Not when, but if?
Not good or bad just read?

I thought of writing lines for you:
Of beauty, of strength, of truth.
A song, just one;
Of hope, of inspiration.
Lines on those themes come rarely now,                                                                                                                                               To write that way in these times is a sin.

These vacuous, vacant, little, listless times.
What use of such pursuits,
In a world like ours,
What’s false, what’s true?
Hate, anger, frustration:
Are themes right for you.

My poems although shallow
From my heart’s depths rise.
They lack in the mass of meaning
Have volume of words.
Not style but sense, nor craft but art.

Who wants to say
Just what they want to say, and stop,
When it’s just begun,
Not half the distance run?
When how it's said,
For how long heard, is half the fun?

My poems are signed anonymous,
For anonymous they are,
From somewhere they come,
Sometimes.

Who makes them?
What time?
Which place?
In what climes?
I think not I fathom it all.

I know it as true,
That there are those two
In presence of who
They come.

Catalysts of creation
Are pain and separation,
In them alone do I trust.
So, pain and separation:
Catalysts of creation,
Keep them alive I must.

Drop after drop
Of pain let drip and stain,
The sheets of life.
Drop after red drop,
From raw lacerations,
Drain and drip
From wounds of separation,
And word by word
Congeal on sheets.

Let poems come,
At least sometimes.

I will **** you with a metaphor
My feelings censored
Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face
The euphemism
When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void
Here I concoct
The right expression;

My sweet weapon
Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun
I am even at a loss for a rhyme.

For when our eyes meet
It is poetry I read,
Without a word
We say it all.

She said “Describe yourself in a sentence,
We want to see what you do with constraints.”
So I thought to be clever and said
“My sentence will extend eternally, bound by infinite commas,
and perhaps, if I’ve very lucky; a semicomma or two;
you see the shackles that you’ve tried to impose are only a barrier if you let them be;
but me, I see opportunities where none should exist,
excuse me ma’am this may be and admittance interview but I see it as an investment opportunity,
my future, your gain… oh and period.”
She looked at her collegues, not betraying any amusements, annoyance, entertainment, nothing.  As if I had given the same answer as the last four people who sat where I do.
She rephrases, “How about a sentence with less than 10 words.”
I smile “I am worth more than a ten-word statement of intent.”
Eleven words. She noticed.
Twenty minutes later I am released,
apparently I’m not the right fit for their program.