Failed Poet

Anatomy of a leaf.

Image via Wikipedia

I am the Failed Poet
I have nothing to offer
and “nothingness” seems to offer more
but I can’t birth something from nothingness
my instruments are sterile
fingers benumbed
heart bleeding
tongue, eyes, nose and skin

there’s no scent my nose dives as sacred
no eye-gaze to consider philosophy
to skin-prodding as stimulus
no word to keep my tongue in rapture
clinging to the leaf of taste
like a caterpillar bursting to a foliage of colours
no brain to synthesize these chemicals of spirits
nowhere — nowhere — nowhere

and let’s not begin with the brain
the heart its poor accomplice
their blood ancestral
their ties familial
yet they divide in kinship
and profession
at least in my house
brain confuses the internal affairs and externals
of “Jill be nimble” “Jill be quick” and “bright” and “light”
heart knows the antithesis of theme
for apposites and opposites and clay and water
Oil and Vinegar stories
only they know

I am the failed poet
I only burn in a frenzy
never in cool posture

I am failed poet
for I cannot please
anyone but myself

I am a failed poet
for I deliver
sans meaning

I am a failed, failed poet
as my lexicon is dry
and my being so empty
and if it be, my lexicon, so wet
it is the soggy papers
Of washed out ink
or food gone bad
for the rains

Dear me — Dear me — Dear me
I am a failed poet
with no cerebral impact
no emotive rotation
no hope to reveal

anything to unplug.


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