andante moderato


the written word
is painful to bear

from the mind’s womb
through the pharynx,

	slowly trickling from one’s head
	onto paper as if it were
	a nosebleed

and is permanently deposited there,
placenta and all,

	a bloodstain
on a once primitive life,
and an untrained eye
that had the ability to learn.

the written word
is no substitute for the sight,
the sound, the smell
of its meaning.

no one can taste its true flavor;
it is just ink.

i clutch it in my palm
but it has no texture,

and to think
i have gained nothing
from souring
this pure, virgin
white canvas,

to think i saw the
forest for the trees for the
sheets of paper they were,

appalls me to no end;

ironically,

the word may yet have a purpose
after all.

the written word
is a faux pas,
a blasphemy,

i do not want to take
responsibility
for writing it,

and be forced
to wear its scarlet letters
on my chest,
everywhere i go.

i would rather not know
its profane utterings,

i would prefer to be
stupid, and believe

	my naivete is the key to eternal youth,

that its experience
	ages the heart in an
	irreversible way,

branding its event into the subconscious
for potential scrutiny
and documentation.

the written word
is a germ

that buds a thousand
interpretations of itself.

i have taken antibiotics
to ensure that i am not
contaminated,

but my efforts are for naught;

the words within my bloodstream
have become the cure,
turning themselves into
poems,

though this is not poetry
i write,

this is death,
in its most basic forms,
black against white.

the written word
is biological warfare

for one to terrorize his or herself

it is an anthrax bomb
that will wipe out
a metropolis

in five letters,

and continents
in less than a sentence.

there is no escape
except to absorb it,

our modern minds
cannot communicate,
decipher, or understand
without it.

it is a state of mind
that i have tried my best
to ignore,

but
the written word
is resourceful,

thoughtful,

and easily forgiven
for its flaws.

the written word
expresses my pain
and solitude
in ways that i wouldn’t
dare explain.

i am indebted to these pages,
these scars
into which you delve,

and in writing this
i must admit that

the written word
is independent of me,

it writes itself
as it may please,

and i have no control
over what is said of me,

the things i appear
to be or not to be

will simply speak for themselves.




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