I wished to start at the point of destruction
Preferably pressing a pen into my pupil
For you see it doesn’t take a doctor to tell you the eyes wouldn’t cut
No.
Instead membrane would rip off and lose itself in the very cavern of my skull
Dissipating like a melody into a song
However all songs are not lovely and the writ of a writer is not that of reason
Sometimes they ramble because every thought is rushing through their head at the pace of molasses
Bleary eyed slow passing images have distorted the language in me And the fault can only fall to my “artistic vision”
So to break is to reclaim part of my honesty
Because despite the hands that write it a truth is the essence of of writing Or perhaps good writing. Without honesty words are lifeless
The minute we gift them part of our experience they animate
And may live on to write the eulogy of their creator
Creators that the public bows their heads to
Not in respect of but in awe
These poets write in tongues which us mortals edge on our toes to touch How ever did they see a girl’s cheeks as a rose? Why are they right? How come I only see pink?
When I put paper to pen paper shreds
Or maybe ink explodes?
Again the shards of a failed composition pierce my vision, yet never the haze Haze. Haze. Haze
When will I meet the intellectual that lives inside me
Three l’s in intellectual
Two are emphasized
The last hangs out in the discount bin
Along with my intellect
Assuming it exists
All my words will dance with the shallow honesty of naivety For I can write down the image on an eye
Without ever telling you what I see
I am deprived every day of my chance to sing
Because my tongue hangs limp
Curving to catch any tears that may fall at the sight of true art I am depraved. Every day I pant hot breath onto each mastery of life Either to destroy it or absorb the lingering skill, I do not know. At one point it finally dawns on me that I have no tact as a poet. Just blunt fingers stumbling to tell you
I see color.
Blobs of color
It’s beautiful and pure and clear and exists solely for me
Alas, I am not enough of a writer to show you
So I will self-deprecate and then self-mutilate
I will stab out my eyes
And truly forfeit any delusion of artistry