If I could lie with poetry as if beside a lover,

Rhymes like arms to hold me, laden pages as a cover

between me and my reality, the truth I try to hide,

Too feeble for the malice of the world that waits outside.

 

If I could lie with poetry as if upon a lover,

Minds meeting as hearts beat to find the rhythm of the other,

Words caressing skin, or tasting sweet on lips so red,

A burdened love beginning in the world inside my head.

 

If I could lie with poetry as if with one I love,

I’d wish the ecstasy of text to lift me far above

this earthly realm so ponderous, that feeds, each passing day

the curséd monster in us that scares poetry away.

 

But poetry’s the razorblade that’s creeping near a vein,

As if to block out real grief by seeking abstract pain,

As if my blackened thoughts could ever leak in blood so red,

As if the need to bleed could free the poet in my head.