I might be delusional
To let language choose
My love for me
It irks me
When I can’t paint potentials
Into poetry
Or squeeze them into poignance
And I want to spit up the words
That my teeth ground and
Tongue swallowed
And scream
The acid in my lungs wants to know
Why I can’t write about “them”
If words won’t accept them
How will I
You need to let it go
You need to extinguish
What makes you poetic
Because I have tried
And failed
And then spun that supernovatic failure
into raucous, poetic, chaotic, art
To my utter dismay
Because as long as you are poetic
For as long as you leech words
From the pores of my soul
There will be no art to give the rest of the world
And I’d only be filling pages
With stories that have already been told
And I can’t keep paying homage
To escaping, parasitic souls