My poetry is not me

It is a part of me

That is wild, unexplored and desolate

It is what man with the needle

Calls "unconscious"

My poetry is sweet like the most

Intoxicating substance

It eats me and leaves

Makes me get muscle spasms

In sensitive places

And I as a cannery flutter in its presence

It is the world of sad boys

And girls and death in their

Desired form.

Yet it is formless and personless

Only filled with ravenous tears

Of sadism and violence

In their most subtle form

Sometimes it is warm to me

And tells me to act warm

Nevertheless, it reminds me

Of my ulterior

And makes me numb and leaves me

It is a way to express my

Womanhood

And of every other woman

The only thing with

I know of a woman

Everyone tells a different story

Some of love

Others of anguish

I say 'chronicles of anguish'.

For him who taught me eminence

And died in my heart and stomach.