What about when the poems don't come?
You'll bite down and it'll only be blood and tears,
the brine of your insides welling up into convenient
pools, easy enough to wring out, to suck back in,
but saying nothing for themselves besides the obvious.
Pain is such a simple animal. It has no need for
words, would rip such silly notions from your
fleshier parts the further it tunnels in. A cave
for the winter, a safe place to hibernate, this is
what the hurt wants, to leave you cold and hollow,
silent under the weight of the realization that no
string of sounds ever did much to cure a wound.

06/12/2004

Posted on 06/12/2004
Copyright © 2024 Aaron Blair