It’s obscene. My ridiculous belief that this pain is unique. That somehow I have tapped into my own sinking ship. My own emotional Titanic, so to speak. And I will be drunk on poetry. Inebriated with alliteration. Plastered in prose. Shit faced with metaphor and simile. I will wallow in my own persecutions and fill my quill with my failures in love. I’ll write my “fuck-you’s” to the girl that left and my “thank-you’s” to the Father above. Ripping words apart. Eviscerating my pain with fiction. Choosing ink as the heroin upon which I’ll base my addiction. I’m friends with Bill, if by Bill you mean Bill by his friends. Will by the rest. William Shakespeare by the masses. Allegory will be my rose colored glasses. Because if hiding in poetry was a college course? I’d be teaching the master classes. I’ll haiku to break you. I’ll mix metaphors to mend. I’ll be fancy enough to finish my short stories with ‘Fini’ instead of ‘The End’. I’ll scrawl out sonnets, and limericks, and who knows. Screaming from the corner of my seedy bar,

“Prose before Ho’s!”

While I raise my Guinness and drink in beer as black as ink and slip my fingers, like a literary molester into the verses center. Offending poetry’s silk purse with my sick desire to rehearse. Swearing that every endeavor be EPIC and NOBLE. No more words spent for trouble. My efforts distinct. My apprehension, double. No time for love. Only time to write. As I am blessed with clairvoyance for surrendering my hindsight. Forgetting to see all that went with it when I did. Pouring out the bath water and never noticing the kid. No looking back. Only above. Failing to see that in hindsight?

I’m a better poet when I’m in love.

¶ 2:02 AM 3 comments