i haven't roughed up a poem in years
haven't found the words to string together,
a thin spine of thoughts to dangle just ahead, just ahead
there aren't words for this, really
i haven't kept a promise in years either,
and i know it seems illusive to say
that poems and truth are the same
but i guess that's just the problem, isn't it
too caught up in my own words to find meaning in them
too strung out on what should be to allow myself to feel compassion
for the things that already exist in front of me.
instead i keep biting at the skin just inside my lips.
trying to imagine what it might be like to care deeply enough
for someone else
that i could let them be deep with me, too,
to touch me here, or there,
to be spread out before them
to be physical
to speak plainly.
i'm not sure where here is anymore,
and it's illogical that we should live so empty and fill up so much
but I keep pouring my thoughts in buckets and dousing myself, over and over and over
as if maybe the shock of it will someday settle into my skin
and I'll realize that time is not complacent
every day that ticks by is forgotten like a breath,
and god i could do with a good poem now and then
something to sink my teeth into
something i can rip at and growl with and scream around and peel apart,
word by itchy word
until it all falls loose around me.
i haven't roughed up a poem in years
and it's no surprise really
that i'm roughing up myself instead.
