we poets (breathe)

We poets

throw cartridges of ink away like cigarette butts;

today, I hold my eyes in hands too small to comprehend

the torn-up, full-of-glass-and-ink that marks them

as a child who lives from line on page to line on page,

from insomnia to nights awake;

from lamp to candle to burning flame-

You'll never find a poet here.

we overthink to think less evil;

we write to scream away our fears.

My mother says before my dreams, my mind was whole and evergreen.

Who was I before my dreams?

Ink cartridges pile up, pile up,

sublime and infinite visions of

A world with lucid dreams like mine

where days pile up in monomers of eternity,

become so infinitely heavy:

could they teach me how to love me?

I dance; I fall.

I hit my head against bricks in the middle of a pirouette

mid-air I strike the ceiling beams

Did you know, I cannot dance?

Did you know I'm not a poet?

I lose myself and fall, then rise

while laughing, smile at my side

There is no fury left in me,

no great poetic melancholy

with which to fuel the inkwell here.

I am no poet because I laugh in melancholy's face

as she breathes her smoke on me.

So I'll forget my amnesia and lovers.

I think that if I forget, I cannot be a poet.

I forget I sleep

Breathe:

All in all,

"poet" is to live free.