eat your hurt

 

If I lower my voice,
perhaps it would become something of interest to you,
and you’d pay a little more attention,

it seems poets only live,
when they pass away,

or maybe I need to fade,
for you to know I have something to say.

Perhaps in my absence,
my presence,
would be of some semblance.

But all you see is you,
and I ask,
how can I eat your hurt,
if I’m still chewing on mine?

How can I let go of life to become immortal on a page, perhaps,
if you’re willing,
you could hear me,
and this juxtaposition of incurable worldliness and longing to be with the divine,
would be no more.

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