Poems Left Unbled by Danny Nasry

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.

Posted on September 10, 2015 .