I want to be thick in the air,
a droplet from my lips to yours,
I thought every poet wants that.
Lit and writ with obsession,
swollen and stillborn confessions,
my life, so dull,
I haven’t even the imagination,
to make it up.
I often imagine what it would be like to give birth,
poetry,
seems my most apt resemblance,
yet why does it feel like I’m mocking myself?
There’s only disappointment,
disapproval and resentment,
a cold and calculated agreement,
that I’m unworthy,
and don’t deserve a second look.
And it is this inhumane barbarism,
yet a clever humility,
that is the fire in our belly that makes us write.
We’re savages against ourselves,
and heal with the ointment of prose,
the more destructive the soul,
the greater the verse.
The greater the curse,
the more poetic of line,
water and aloe,
for brimstone and blue flame.
I want to be thicker than just in the air,
but God created me with an unapproachable face,
in retrospect,
perhaps to afford me more time to myself.
And so,
whilst this thickness is as seductive as the sun thawing my skin,
the path chosen for me,
is the one within.
Dissipation seems to be the ordain,
evaporation much the same,
a quiet fade into the atmosphere,
a touch of your senses much to your oblivion.
A whisper in the back of your mind,
that gnaw, knowing that you’ve heard this before,
from the aspiration of thickness,
there I am,
mutated to an anchor in your consciousness.
W.E.
lonerloaner 