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Stupid Worthless Writing
Writing is pointless.
just contrived and stapled graphite to a page.
A child, following a dotted line
to draw a cursive S
does not feel the tug of language that,
like the tide that eats the sand beneath my feet,
will swallow me whole
until I am lost within a world of letters.
They build things, these letters,
if I don't keep them in check.
they will swoop down and construct my empires,
my lakes of gold and palaces of paper cranes,
ten thousand elephants with stars riding their backs,
a symphony of silverware being thrown down a brass laundry shoot and
the scream a flower makes when you pluck it from the ground.
writing, it is best kept inside your head,
for you to forget as soon as possible,
so that no beasts escape when the ink seeps from my skin
and paints a world in which I can live
away from prying eyes
and sheltered from judgment
that curiosity will burn so strong that you,
will come guiltily once more to gaze on my raw words,
unable to keep your vanity at bay,
will, with your all-consuming sense of self importance,
assume this poem is for you.
But my little words, so potent if taken without
a screen of modesty to shelter you from my
have given you more stones to throw at me
than you could ever grovel for yourself.
And so, I say these letters are nothing but acid that will
burn the hollows of my cheeks again
with that toe-curling shame
you have acquainted me with so personally.
I hope you enjoyed these words,
I know you will not admit that you have seen them but
we both know you couldn't resist.
So you're welcome
for bloating your ego like a dead fish,
there are some things that I could let slip out on to this page here
and pretend they were an accident,
but you would surely catch me in the act.
(I wish I could erase your memory)
as much as I deny regretting it
(I hope a little bit you won't ever read this)
(I wish I could lie to you)
(I miss you)
but never love,
for that would earn me more silence
and as we both know,
that is the best rock you can throw