Poems left unbled
Canvases left gaping
Fancy, new journals perpetually shelved for want of perfect thoughts
Vivid dreams diluted by a deluge of those hazy and forgotten
Snoozes and sighs at the pregnant morning light
Scorn of structure that is structured destruction.
I’ve been holding my breath for so long
Trying to keep my life in accord
But this trembling at the weight of life
Is hardly the sweet resonance of a chord
Shouldn’t creativity flow from me like harmony?
How can simply being bring harm on me?
Is this poem locking me in this me-made ward
Or warding off its own song?
I’m so scared of cresting a climax
Of finding there’s nowhere to go but down
That when my calves begin to strain at the foot of an incline
I begin walking sideways, looping around the summit
Always in resolution, without suspense to resolve
Have I grown to love the ineffectuality of fear
More than the frightful dynamism of love?
Do I love fear and fear love?
To combat my slothy apprehension
I’ve shackled myself to an instrument of death
It (dis)graces my wrist, oppressively consistent
Irksomely methodical, recording life-moments
The morsels it belittlingly calls seconds
The things I want to relish as firsts
The breaking of the hum of life
Into these staccato jerks and jolts
Chips away at what’s left of me.
My life has my voice’s vice—
Though a tuner would tolerate it
It’s neither fleshy nor sonorous
Like the skeleton of a good life
Without any meat on it
This life looks good on paper
But the fruits don’t show it true
A bad song stuck in your head
The worst sort of déjà vu.
This fog I’m in is a shrouded shalom,
Familiarity through paralysis,
An involuntary home.
Though I feel safe and known,
This me, by my sickly analysis,
Is not me—but a relieving groan
Is me in a whimper.
Is me in perpetual winter.
A tree in autumn that clings to its leaves
Though their colors have begun to run
Though they no longer feed me the sun
Their beauty leaves renewal undone
For their time has passed
The fear of being left naked and exposed
Leads to a disdain for the seasons
And these withered leaves I hold
Are their own illusion of a reason.
A water droplet with prismatic ability
I was made to refract the light
But instead, its heat and my fragility
Cause me to sizzle out of sight
The scorching light now remains white
With its rainbows kept latent
This vapor I am, ever nascent
Feels but an agony of delight.
As I finally bleed this poem
Fear is drawn to the scent
But the poem he bled overwhelmed fear to death
Oh that my life’s poem would vanquish fear
Oh that there wouldn’t be fear in my final breath.