my poetry comes in gasps and shrieks
words wedged between
the small talk and the silence
abbreviated lines of white wisdom
expelled from my brain
in couplets and combinations
every word struggles to find a voice
amid the confusion
of impulse and emotion
the final short breaths
of a fatal youth drowning
in a sea of soundless sensations
here are the first grave thoughts
of unapologetic age
the headaches and the nausea
the depression and the anger
leeching from my skull
like water dripping from a stone
every syllable becomes a confrontation
between frankness and form
and a future promising nothing
death noises fill the air
rattling last rites like
a cat coughing up a bone
and in conclusion:
poetry, such as it is
is not born of fire
but of the tepid heat of the body
when you have nothing to say
the performance itself
is the only thing that matters
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