AND YOU CALL IT POETRY
I rub off my sins on graves at unvisited cemeteries or on the pages of books that've been forgotten and you call it poetry. poetry doesn't flow in my veins, it chokes on my throat until i ache and puke it out. sometimes it's tucked beneath my tongue and i peel it out in the form of lies beacause truth isn't always poetic. my room's illuminated by blue neon and the only noise at 3 a.m is of my pen scribbling.( i look out the window; the moon isn't visible tonight) so i take a sip of anger i keep repressed on my beside table, unlock the tragedies between my joints and get drunk on bittersweet memories. an anxious critic, emotionally distant daughter, the neighbour with a sad smile, shaky handwriting, rough hands, blunt pencil nibs, isomniac aching with poetry, isomniac aching with poetry is what i am.
