poems

poems

typed up en masse

until my fingers ache

and my eyes

swim

with the black and white

of empty documents

being filled.

these are

the things i cannot say aloud

because there's something

impersonal

about writing something personal

and putting it

where the world

can see it,

a lack of intimacy

in ink

that doesn't exist

out loud.

reassurance,

knowing that

the words i say

will never be seen by friends,

but instead shared among strangers,

to be read

and forgotten.

my darkest thoughts

are passing entertainment,

a fleeting smile,

a hasty comment,

a brief flash

of truth

that maybe makes you

snap your fingers

in the grocery store

and nod

at the glow of a screen

before you remember

that you have to

pick the kids up

from school

and you put your phone away

and pick up

tonight's dinner.

it is

an impersonal form

of intimacy

to touch someone

so deeply

for such a short time.

and i'll watch

my poems buried

by more poems,

the curse

of being

(self-professed)

prolific.

and soon i won't be able

to find them at all.

even i forget

my own thoughts.

burying them

in the cemetery of my mind

so i can visit them

once a year

and eventually

stop visiting altogether

because i can no longer find the time

to dwell on

masterpieces that have passed on.

or maybe that's an excuse

i tell myself

to avoid

reliving

the experiences behind them.

poems

are my fleeting gift

to myself,

and maybe the world.

i'll

hold them out

towards the world

and wait for love.

and even if they're

made of razors

and they sink

into my skin,

i'll

stamp myself with

humor

until i'm able to pretend

that my poems aren't a confessional,

and i'll lie

to hide

the diagnosis behind them.

my poems are

brought to you

by my crippling

mental illness.

it's a corporation

that you might not have heard of,

but it's the one

that makes my fingers spasm

against the keyboard,

and it doesn't even bother to pay me

for all the work i do

to keep it alive

inside me.