Why I write poetry:

to keep away the demons that haunt my dreams

whispering black white nothings

that creep along my pillow and into my ear

molten quick silver to melt my mind and wet my pen.

 

To swallow down with a teaspoon of sugar

the worms that swim in my stomach at silent o'clock

starving for light in the darkness.

 

For the voiceless memories of you,

the imagined phonecalls that ring behind my eyelids,

the fingers tied down with paperweights,

and the Times New Roman roads that swim before blinded pupils.

 

I dream ink pen follies

and shout them with a pendent made of angel wings

that truth will flow

only when all else has been removed.

So I scrub the skin raw with glass shards

so the world can feel the cold caress of raw newness.

 

To answer the universe when it calls me collect

to use my throat as a megaphone for the words ignored

to tear the blindfold from the eyes of humanity

and let us bleed reality until tears fall

and wash away the stains we caused.

 

I write because I have something to say.