when I write a new poem, I proudly present it like a newborn baby. most of the time later, after rereading it and knowing no one liked it, I wondered ‘what was i thinking?” but truth be told, if we don’t be ourselves, no one will have a chance to like the real us, anyway? being liked for who i’m not? yeah, I’ll pass on that.
here’s my newborn baby, the reason of the heart, my symptomofwe:
symptomofwe
you can feel me now
because I’m in love with your love;
our big swirling black clouds demystifies
dissipates bragging.
i’m not fooled by pretty, expressive, faces,
because i really love them,
for expression is everything.
inside-out
turning like most people
turning
turn
inside-out
i want to be respected,
loved,
to transform spirits to shine so brightly, that
there’s no tomorrow or yesterday worth knowing.
when I write
i feel alone
less alone and then
together.
you know what it means when
no matter what it reads like, we
always write with all our singular heart.
this is how you bring the best rest out of me,
the best from you,
into the best called we.
there’s a difference in writing poems
at
people;
but writing
to
someone is everybody’s business.
i’ve always been an emotional overachiever,
unable to yield to this world in con-plicated tones, for
swimming in this river of love requires drowning in writing,
and
reincorporealizing into non-words of solid-ish substances,
extemporizing experiences;
so, in poetry, we die and are
bornbothatonce
drawing our sacredbreath
of
nonjealousy
in
symptomofwe