This is what frees my passion,
my work is evergreen,
a beautiful disaster,
a remedy for me,
immortal like an
Indian fig tree.
This puts coal in my furnace,
embedded below my dermis,
keeping me warm like a thermos,
something that serves a purpose,
as important as habeas corpus.
But I am no longer a
prisoner of my thoughts,
with this bloody ink I jot,
scheme and plot
my regime.
I'm like a machine,
poetry is what I bleed,
on these words I feed,
my thoughts concede,
sorry, my pen is greedy.
The pain is nearly gone,
but always returns
like dusk and dawn,
my writing is Genghis Kahn,
stout and brawn,
conquering the evil
with lethal force.
This pen is what
keeps my life intact,
making the nightmares subtract,
my soul is no longer [trapped],
so tonight I pack;
bury the thoughts
far beyond the margins and
never
look
back.
—
4/23/23
11:47 AM
インクは私の親友です
YOU ARE READING
The Words I've Never Said
PoetryA place where I put my soul on display for the world to see. Here's a closer look at the ups and downs of my consciousness. If I could use two words to describe my writing they would be an emotional rollercoaster. My goal is to heal those reading...
