THIS IS NOT A POEM

THIS IS NOT A REAL POEM

this is not

chasing the coattails of immature sentences

period and catching on

this is not

breaking the barrier of thinking

in rhythm

and only comprehension is away

this is not

feeling the gritty grime

crust through fingers to the page

and land in a pattern of ugly

that is beautiful

this is not

lying through sharpened teeth

to make a point

that you don’t believe

until it’s there

this is not

real

this is not

whole

this is not

that thing that it is said to be

what it looks like

what it tastes like

this is not

that poison

this is not

anything

that is not what

it feels like being

Ink

these wings are words that whisper wonderingly through me

wander thoughts of thoughtless beginnings and fabling fibs to tell a lie

rip right out my back in breaking painful price of giving up oneself to the sky

my bloodless body is a candy-colored corpse hanging thin and fumbling from textual lines left behind

swing me from the simple stars this celestial print projection and leaving me waning under the moon’s face

sending lacy ink like water to reach round my back and through to the heart

like blackened wilting webs they hold me as a marionette wobbling in the wind of marginal space

gossamer feathers spiky and soft with warmth

they slash the open page with loving feather fingers wash with cruel wanderings

cut the cords that carry me, these lines that want to string my things

and when the wished-for punctuation crashes to closing it works its wonder on my will

i drop, the warm longing of painful loving leaves me

without the want of need like water in the veins

i fall, alone without the agonized torment of driving destruction

without the wretched wrong of giving half and more to the hateful heavens

i collapse, without the strings of alphabet soup that flow from my fingers into those that pull me

without the rivers of ink that itch beneath skin until they are born free

i die

First Words

Silence builds. Silence breaks. It crouches in my soul where it should not be.
I wish to give up my silence, to surrender it to the hands of an unforgiving Internet audience. I do not know if I can hold an audience and this frightens me. Not because I need approval, but because I am trading in my silence without a guarantee and I could be left all alone and empty.

What to say? I have stumbled into this blindly. I have no great plan or story. This is my life. It is average on the outside and weird on the inside. It is a scoop of rainbow ice cream (not sherbet because I despise sherbet) that threatens to melt away into the heartless concrete of suburban sidewalks like so many around me.

I am a poet. I am a writer. I am young and bored and have words floating around in my body. They have asked me for escape and I have granted it.
I think my opinions are unique. This is probably because I actually think about my opinions.
I do not know if I will find anything great to say here. My silence is not the result of some great tragedy that I can use to wow you. My silence is the result of fear and lack of time.

I release my silence here. I give it away to the universe. Perhaps something good will come of this.
I am aware that you still don't know who I am. I cannot decide whether or not I like it that way.