On the Uselessness of Poetry

Words aren't real enough to love or be loved.

When does the magic take effect?

When do words on paper leap off

alarmed swans or graceful gutter pigeons in search of you

you - who steals my words and thoughts

saying things I don’t want to when you’re inside me

When does curtain of reality peel back and reveal the mysterious

other side, behind dreams and fantasies and lustful whisperings to Night?

When do you fly or crawl or saunter out of wish and into bed?

Words do not keep me safe in arms

long and winding, twisting and keeping me

in your heart

They are wind having no impact

They are useless and heavy

dragging conscious thought to sewers of what-ifs and fairytales

missing out on blinding daylight of presence

They are weapons of self-destruction bombing for peace

They are ashes in wake of passionate fire

all-consuming funeral pyre of living breathing f*****g

They are tears from eyes long-dry in faces rotten

They cannot be you

and in that, they are cruel

sie erklärst du, aber sind nicht du

in deiner Gegenwart, bin ich glücklich, gemütlich,

...es ist schrecklich

Jargon, language, prose, metaphors, mimesis

no matter style or form or sexy pun or clever confession, no closer to you;

all illusions of love

yet no truer love than beetles bumping beer bottles

finding cures for hurt in bottoms of alcoholic wells

Words - mine, yours - can’t make me hate

they can’t displace thoughts, cruelly beautiful denizens

from inhospitable dwellings

they can’t change the beast in its cage

that pounds against my chest

at the scent of you

they can’t halt blood rushing to soldier

at sight of your general

they can’t mend cracks

in a loving heart unloved

pumping, sustaining its own torture

These words are malignant

cancerous cells spreading slowly stopping self-contentment in existence

These words are useless

Reviews

[GwenLark]

I really loved this. I think it's word choice and utter, striking relatability