Writing myself into a metaphor
This, this is poetry, the abstract sitting beside me, like a long lost friend exchanging thoughtful memories while Discarded thoughts of tomorrow sit like old men, forgetting themselves over the horizon remaining just beyond the water's edge reminiscent of yesterday
This is what it feels like, the flutter of my heart, the rough skin between my hands, the headaches, the comforting touch, my mind dizzy with all these metaphors, and promises that fall from my mouth like baby teeth, the sinking in my chest, the numbness of my hands trying to patch up leaky thoughts that escape the water tower of my subconscious when I'm writing, trying to clean them up with an amusing hydrophobic parody of my own personality
This is what it tastes like,
Bitter then sweet then bitter again, sometimes savory gramatic acrobatics that I spit onto this paper, just to relive, the taste of the feelings, all for them to escape me and slide back down my throat and sit there solidifying behind brave faces
This is what it's like to be a writer
Too many words, letters and phrases that amount to nothing more than a poem, my beautiful painted words on this page, in this air, are not enough for me to leave my black lip stick on the deepest part of your soul I want you to feel it. My brush, smearing colors on every blank space on the back of your eye lids, I want you to taste the words roll in word and on word into your bones. I want you to carry me with you like a mishap in your heredity, me, a spot left on your DNA, me, the bend of your knee, me, the color of your hair, me, that mole on your chin, me, eating you alive from the outside in, me, consigning you to oblivion
This is poetry, poet giving you shattered pictures to piece together, writer trying to revive my old abstract friends, creator sewing together these lines, variable staining your blood line, women making more outcasts, Writer, outsider, women, master piece, animal, poetry