the poet

Tue, 08/16/2016 - 19:25 -- cb1102

an open book of poetry lies half-read, half-abandoned because as a moth is drawn to a light, the amateur poet is drawn to thoughts of imminent failure

 

the knowledge of talent unfound, unpolished

 

an acute sense of loneliness, a peculiar one at that

 

like cold darkness from the inside out

 

but rather warm than cold

 

hot burning longing and desire for something just out of reach

 

something with no face, no name

 

the future does not look bleak, but the bridge between now and then is blurry and treacherous, in and out of frame because while it may exist sometimes, it doesn't always

 

poetry isn't real and neither is art

 

so the poet is boxed and the poet is trapped

 

they are confused and the hot loneliness travels

 

 

it goes from their stomach, the very pit, up their throat and finds purchase behind their eyes

 

but the poet can't contain it, the poet is weak and the loneliness spills and it is no less hot than it was just before in their stomach

 

it's a shameful thing done in the dark because the poet refuses to let others see the hurt and the fear because the poet was raised in fear and the constant will to please

 

and when the poet begins to settle, they know they must try harder because everything is expected of them and just like that, the bridge is clear and visible once again

 

the poetry book, some Siken, shows the amateur poet what to do with their fear. their panic.

 

the poet was thrust here with no purpose but the poet will create their own purpose

 

the bridge will dim and the bridge will appear and the book of Siken and a book of Ginsberg will float lazily beside it and the poet will breathe and the poet will walk

 

beside the Whitman and the Wilde and of course the Dickinson and extinguish the fire deep inside their belly

 

but until then, the poet will stay up long after the park closes and read their Siken and feel their panic, the poet's and Siken's, and rock and shake and wait

the poet is more than the poet realizes and will one day begin to believe that

This poem is about: 
Me

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