Friday, 7 August 2015

The dreaded poem

The dreaded poem

I can’t write any words today
My pen is empty of the invisible ink that tells my secrets.
Old man language, my oldest friend fails me:
Words will not comfort, just sit brazen on the page
Mocking as I search for the one that is right:
They simply hurt me, my bones, my teeth, my legs.

I can’t form letters today
There is no beauty in a world too used to such a loss.
No metaphor or simile can help me right now
They won’t sooth the pain that burns as ember
Or fill the vacuous cavern you left when we parted:
They just hurt me, my fingers, my cheeks, my toes.

I can’t speak my thoughts today
No ideas will come - none wanted, only peace.
The frivolity of clever syntax offends my very soul
You’ve gone too long, too soon, taken too far
To a place I can't see, can’t believe, won’t conceive:
Because they hurt me, my hair, my skin, my eyes.

I can’t feel today, can’t let that happen
All that’s left is to restart the countdown for yet another year.
Alliteration reeks of apathy, and rhyme, it but spits in this face of mine.
Clichés of sleeping, dreaming, watching from the next room,
From a better place and always in still in my heart:
Bring me nothing but hurt, my insides, my tears, my sorrow.

I can’t write this poem today
I don’t want to; don’t want to write anything anymore.
It hurts too much, it's hurt for too long -
My heart, my soul, my head:
Because however many times I write this poem
To you Muv, it will never be read.