My Unfuckening 

Heart Wrenching Poetics 

It was in the ricochet of your aim,
shrapnel repercussions
forcibly deconstructed into
disassociation.

From myself,
from you, for nothing more
than to fathom
the ugliness of such
an existence.

I dismount your weapon and slide,
somewhere between meter and rhyme,
I honour the freedom of bending it
e v e r
s o
s l i g h t l y

Juxtaposition it,
until the walls that hold me
are stardust in
free verse of
curved time with
absolutely no construct.

I trudged within the grime
of what it is to see
structures fall into place and rust,
to see signs in a darkened sky
and have the balls
to raise myself high enough
to confess I’m knee-deep
in this mess.

To now see that you didn’t see
and you probably will
never comprehend
the complexity of layers
embedded in me.

Carnage is only carnage
if I allow it.

I held my thoughts in splinters
daggers of past times
in my fingers, that now
freely type and sometimes rhyme
about what it is to
live through such a
thing.

Today, I kick up dust
leg raised high
with a singular twirl.

This, this is the beginning of my unfuckening.

This is How it Feels to be a Poet Today

Imagine, you’re always the odd one in the room, pouring words in all the wrong places. Splashing the faces of those who are not in tune with the rhythm of a heart that beats to release poetics not defined as structured or educated enough to fly high with the best or drift in the winds of the classics before you.

You’re not rich in fancy words but simplistically poor.

Growth comes and goes but never seems to hang around long enough
for you to grasp it.

Imagine, catharsis is your life and try as you might your pen does not move
on demand, so when it flows you have to drop everything and in that process you leave everyone behind.

Just as you think you nailed meter and rhyme, chiming perfectly in line with what is socially acceptable, your creative boost becomes the noose around your neck, with, yet, another rejection.

Not a damn soul in this god forsaken room understands how heavy that feels.

You know you’re an awkward oddity sitting somewhere between poetry and prose. Your heart is in this, but you wish it wasn’t sometimes, because, these lines take another piece of you and you only have so much to give.

Isolation is your best friend in a world that does not approve of you, just another number, it is always about the numbers. They rather you sink in your words until you can rise with something softer, something broad or gentle.

Something that isn’t you.

Authenticity calls your name only to be swept away and with it your dreams of ever being recognized as someone worthy of the title ….

Poet.

You wind down now and release. You count the people who accept you, the people who encourage you, you do so on one hand.

Although it is only one, that is everything.

Langtson Hughes reminds you to dream and Wendell Berry chimes in with The Peace of Wild Things…

and for a few, rare, moments, you can breathe again.

This is how it feels to be a poet today.

 

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