Confessional Poetry is Self-fulfilling


“You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax – This won’t hurt.”-HST


“I don’t trust you.”

When I searched for oxygen
Plain on the stretcher,
My body stiff as the language
Used for a suicide letter.
I found darkness
And released my stance
For prayer. Florescent beamed like a pearl.
Inside a tunnel of white a few shudders
Reminded me of the nothing of existence.

“I don’t trust you.
You’re deceitful.
A poem.
A lie.”

I asked about love.
Though I am not good
At that-sort-of-thing.

Seduced by the Now.
For the Now
Is me. A decision of me.
…trust me….

4am hid underneath my fingertips.
I tore apart the mask of prints
Hoping a notion of anxiety
Would quiver the numbering
Hidden inside my identity.

“I don’t trust you.”

Perhaps agreeing was deceitful.
Or a granted honesty
If the Now was to impose the consequences
Of emotions.

Then I made a promise.
A man.
Offering the population an understanding.
Of what’s good about a paper soul
It’s blank. Can be filled with caricatures,
Sonnets and rants. But when it’s full. It’s cluttered.
Yes. Don’t trust that it will ever be cleaned.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s