(Poe)m

Most poems are lamentably generic

you read things like,

“Life feels like a gearstick

of a car — always changing positions

but it’s necessary to drive the car forward”

or

“Love is when two souls are so entertwined

they can’t be apart without combusting into flames

of longing–”

or

“Our feet meet in the sand

and our lips part for a while

to catch a breath

but yours is catching something else

it catches words

heavier than iron

wrought in irony –

you release it free

for you and for me to linger in its mercury-like liquid

I’m in love, with someone else”

Beautiful? Yes. Generic? You tell me.

I always have this habit of scanning a poem

trying to find a special word

to hook me to a halt, to yell out at me, ‘stop!’

‘read me with your mind!’

‘it’s insulting to look at me, naked and bare,

like that of a backstreet man, eyeing a whore to spend the night with — an unforgivable slight’

Many of them, lack said hook

but those that don’t, would make breathing feels like it’s my first time

would make me play with that painful protruding piece of skin peeling from the sides of my fingers and the hurt doesn’t hurt any more, but not any less either

These special few

they rain dews on ember

they breathe.