Monday, February 28, 2011

DAy 592: poet forgotten

i have forgotten ho to be a good poet
the kind that slits her wrist on the stage
so that everyone can Marvell at the crimson
call it beautiful
look at the way shes grows for us
they say
i know
you want to be here
watching me
dancing for the hyenas
so i have made myself
the routine
is just that
a routine
and no one ever grows from doing the same thing
that's called insanity
and we've
mistaken it for artistry
for breaking and rebuilding
for hearts
sewn into screams
like the silence we've banished from our palms
these are the parts we've forgotten
done written them into routine
resented our pens for becoming ordinary
when we failed to want to push ourselves to the brink
any longer
there's only so many times you can bleed
on the same piece of floorboard
before you stop growing
before everyone
stops calling you beautiful
and starts calling you

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