Don't ask me to write more.
I wrench words in ragged pieces
from my very being.
paper mache of a thousand hurts;
bared pain and anguish and sorrow
that somehow you find beautiful.
To ask me to write more,
to entertain you with whim and word
is to ask me to rip myself to shreds.
Asking me bleed afresh
from the newest wounds
and the oldest of scars.
Don't celebrate my words, I plead.
Don't wish new sorrows upon
my frail poet's soul.
Comments
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after your last stanza, i hesitate to comment, but i find that i must commend your work. wonderful expression of the tortures that create the poet. great write!
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