Poetry vs The World
The world —
It sees no need for the kind words,
It has it with beauty and greed.
It has nothing but the kind words,
It offers it in the act of writing it.
When it is but the clinging of soul,
Its cling comes from both,
Their need to own parts of me.
To be held under captive,
To be mesmerized by both,
To be under both’s spell.
It is about having to breathe,
Drowned by the pretty lies,
Arrested to endure its torture.
It wouldn’t move from its blooming seed,
All at the bottom of my stomach,
A tree of poisoned vines.
A-bounded to those who read or see —
To experience the expectation to love it,
To see the evil and righteousness.
But to be free of either —
Is to say you’ve made a home,
One or in neither.
Giving blood and flesh,
A voice to its presence,
A conscience to what I live in what I love in pieces.