Sunday, June 28, 2015

Day 22: Untitled

"I can't write another fucking poem," I said.
She shrugged and said, "so don't," as though
not living up to a self-imposed challenge 22 days into the deal
would be as easy as simply 
choosing not to.
Some days
it feels like I am but a constellation of perfectionism and self-doubt
sewn together by over-active nerves and a too sensitive heart;
I am too much and not enough
in every situation -
but I'll see it through to its bitter end.

There are times
when I can't write poems
because I'm not ready to see my truth
splayed like roadkill on my paper.
My heart is speeding
to run away from today's truths
but I can't poem lies -
 the blank page acts as a truth serum
that I'm not ready to face,
so I'm not writing another poem.
Tonight, I'll read novels or watch dumb TV as a salve
to soothe the raw and achy part:
no one really wants to see
the bloodstains on the paper.

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