the problem with poetry
is honesty, this saccharine sweet truth
which drips from my chapped lips, tastes
foreign on my tongue, lingers far too long, stains
beach towels and fall curtains, which
glow as the seasons change, into
a fading bright orange.
the problem with honesty
is in the phrasing, wrapped in lettuce,
so these vegetarian hearts can take it, rather the
knock on my door in the middle of the night that
I wouldn't hear, except that I'm awake,
honesty shakes me out of bed and
holds my weary head
in translucent arms.
the problem with poetry
is honestly, me, it's these tapping
keyboard fingers, riding my translucent
arms up into my shoulders, down into my chest,
this vat of blood and oxygen and syrup,
it professes knowledge it doesn't
have, it dreams up passion
it still doesn't know,
this poetry, this
honesty.
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