Black Bile

Poem

By Paul Aaron DomenickPublished 5 months ago • 1 min read

Errata: De-pression

It must be a printing error.

You can’t de-press anything.

Like a groove in a record, like a trench for my foxhole feelings—

Self.

Unmade.

Pressed into my past.

As if I can’t let go.

Better: Melancholy

The black bile of my humour

Can be drain-

It can become folklore. It can become paint.

I can let.

Go.

So press me. Im-press me.

Test me.

Give me the will to let go.

Let. Go.

Of the wheel—

Unthinkable surprises, bystanding byproducts

of an open heart—

for Creation

That will never. Stop.

I write to break the psyche in half. What good are words unless they turn us upside down and shake us?

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