Let’s get this straight.
I could write this,
using visual metaphors.
As architects build,
or painters paint.
Instead, my blood boils,
with oil and **** at the thought.
Poems are a release,
for the empathic.
I could tell you,
nothing is something.
How there is always,
light in darkness.
But, most importantly,
love is cruel.
I could look to,
Emily or Li-Young.
Study the beautiful words
and the mastery of pen.
I protest and reject this,
I will break my rhythm.
Then I will cry,
self-doubt and blood.
You see the word emotion,
is the world to me.
Absorbing as a typhoon does,
all the good and bad.
I could proclaim,
that this is a gift.
To me it is torture.
Even as I write this,
it fills my glass.
Hot magma rises,
boiling to the top.
It will ******* spill over.
I want it to.
The release will feel empty.
Vacant.
There is nothing more,
I could say or jot.
Scribble my protest,
to the heavens.
Why do I feel?
How do I feel?
Why do I feel this much?
