Write, burn

I am the best poet
That no-one will widely read, until
I’m dead.

My mother said “Why don’t you write books instead? There’s no money in poetry

There’s no notoriety in poetry.”

I nod and the burn just sits there,
Humming in my sternum like an
Archangel. If you are not a writer
You don’t understand.

I have wrapped myself in words for years, words that eased the burden of self-infliction, revenge fiction
That castrated ex-boyfriends and mourned ex-friends. How the words burn, how the words will never not burn

I embrace the flood of
Words, watch as they flow to embrace from the un-dammed mind

Words make me gasp in their sheer spite and painfulness
or cry
Under the strain of their shy and tender love and you wonder why

I am a poet?

I am so full of fury and empathy
Sometimes I feel I will wail and wail, an eternal banshee,
Unanswered. I have enough work

Enough painful, pretty, twisted words
For five books. Six books.
Scourge me or support me but
I will make it impossible

For you to ignore the lit match and the gasoline,
My literary and invasive spleen
That has choked the words right out of you and vomited them back
at me.

About fiercemissc

Twenty-something Geordie girl living and working in Hong Kong. Young, free and single and making the most of it.
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