i'm not a poet.

i am not a poet.

but a beggar,

with my knees

falling

to

the

floor

at the locked cathedral doors,

spilling my sins like confession

and praying the page accepts them.

this is not a poem.

it’s a catalog of my aggression

the master list of

all

my

transgressions.

letters written in chicken scratch

and stuffed into a box with no latch

to be found by you.

if you read these dirty deeds,

would you turn on me?

if you knew the weight these words carried in my mind,

would you run and hide?

or maybe you’d fight?

i wonder what it’s like to be crucified—

tied to a stake and burned alive.

what is a poem, anyway, but a cry—

a plea for help in the dead of night,

tears smudging ink as they dry?

i stand at the altar and bleed

while the page laughs at my greed

like a prideful deity asking

who

gave

you

the

fucking

right?

a poem is a ruthless fight.

these are not poems, my friend,

they are stones

to be thrown

at my head

when the townsfolk realize i’m not one of them.

words to never be said.

swords and daggers

i pull from my spirit and lay

on the page so they don’t go to waste,

just waitin’

to be taken.

plunged through my chest

til the breath leaves my breast

and

all

that’s

left

is this cold, empty place,

where i stand

center stage

in the ruins of the worlds

i tried to create

but the page

would

never

resuscitate.