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The Death of a Poem MAG
It hurts, I swear it does,
As you run a spear through the words.
I listen to the sloppy speech,
The unkempt pronunciation.
Meaning lost,
To uncaring ears
I want to caress the words,
And you hold them at arm’s length,
Stare them down,
Then begin your long hike through them
Dissecting, inspecting,
Then smashing back together the mutilation of
Poem, story,
Heart.
I love the whisper of feeling on my tongue,
You swallow it without knowing.
Rushing on,
It rushes down.
Periods missed,
Inflection lost.
Dismembering the entire work.
And I wait ’til you’re gone,
Then recite words with meaning.
Hold them in my heart,
Cradle them.
Try to touch the author’s skin
For it must hurt to be lost,
To be tortured.
Feeling unknown
And I hold the story,
And coax out,
With loving care, its meaning.
For surely this is the fate of this work,
Show it kindness, respect,
Please treat it as a poem.
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(: KEEP WRITING :)
