Write a Poem
I thought that I wrote poetry because I was hurt, But now I am marred and small and I cannot remember how to hold a pen, my hand isn't disfigured, but there's a hairline crack in my mind, like the adiposity of life has sat quietly rocking in the same chair for years and they cannot quite call the hinges broken, but it certainly has a pressure fracture as immortal things do to mortal things, I am unsure of how to press the pen down like a knife to a wrist and let the whole world bleed, I cannot find words to let seep across blue lines like blood cells in a vein. I thought I wrote poems because I was hurt, but instead I wrote them because I was alive, and now I am marred and small and I cannot write my name let alone write a poem, I cannot eat a sandwich, chew and masticate particles in my mouth and squeeze it down a muscular tube, I cannot lay my head on a pillow, be still and alone with my thoughts, I cannot write a poem, unless you call this a poem, Then sure I ca