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.
