I told them I do not write poetry.
I will make this poem clear:
Edges of lips scented with honey, tongue fidgeting,
I scrape around for inspiration. Beware! –
the verses scream. Edit each emotion, submit it alive. Beware! –
each verse scares, invading room and mind.
Edit each frail emotion, submit it heated teeth chant furiously,
timidly.
I hold back tongue, afraid it will lick the dishonest,
sweet honey pasted under and around lips. I surrender to
the lies and lick, lick, lick. Oh, they're sweet! So heavenly sweet
tongue flights! It's sprinting downwards!
Downwards lies a stomach knitted with forgotten,
sincere verses. It massages its grey sweetness along
the surface, seeking entrance. I yelp.
Protecting the truth is painful.
They battle, stomach and tongue.
I can't talk. Drink and food too are yawning widely,
crying for attention. I can't eat. When they ask of me, I write
I am separating fiction from non-fiction. But the truth is
painful. Fuck, it's painful.
This isn't clear enough. The water too is losing
its colour. The water isn't clear enough. I
don't mind.
Time is growing tired of my growing battles.
A rush to vomit overwhelms. I realise this is a poor
analogy of a reality I've disobeyed. I can't
release the lies, they're embedded in me. The battle has ended,
the lies stare crystal clear. So clear
they're deceiving me too.
I want to surrender. Surrender like stomach,
Like Mother. Like Father. Like Sister, like
Brother. Like all: surrender. Surrender. I will(want to)
paint the towns of my skin red - the colour of defeat.
The colour of spilled blood. Also the colour of love –
Don't you wonder why?
Mind raised rather than arms, I practice surrender.
I've fast-forwarded the play and studied surrender.
Allow me to surrender; I've learnt my lessons.
Forgive this poem; I can see it's not clear enough
like I have said.
