Starting to realize now, Ive got this sickening fascination
with leaving cathartic messages,
carving them into my walls with pain and paint,
a combination so tepid that the plasters peeling like colorless waterfalls.
Theres ink in my mouth, and I cant get it out
(not that Id want to anyway,
now that Ive grown accustomed to the comfortable taste
of poetry on my tongue);
and its of use, by its own rite, of course,
for when the acrylics have dried or simply run out
I can spit a darker art onto the canvas -
the relief of my every waking nightmare pinned and dissected on the table,
like an animal exposed.
But, who is the animal?
If I could bite down or shove a covered foot into my mouth
to keep myself from speaking,
I wouldve pursued a career as a mime, but,
since Ive never been able to do either,
language has found its home in my aching heart.
And yet still
Ive often thought to take that familiar needle,
which I have used bo