Birth of a Poet

Eyeing my Deadness

You sign in to the usual darkness.

 Eyes wide shut you peer into an unusual brand of deadness.

You whisper and the deadness whispers back. 

You stumble pass cautionary markers 

muttering “the hell with it.”

 As you pass the last marker you stumble 

finding this brand of deadness pleasing to your head. 

The first writing is scrap. 

Second is the same. 

The garbage in your head scatters and words like, 

the winds summons me to write this line, sheer on to the page. 

Alas the poet is born!

Reviews

[Alfred Kukitz]

Years ago I was guilty of that crime but now I feel more justified. Thanks Jacob!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

and unfortunately some of that scrap is probably well worth keeping, but we are our own worst critics...

this write i tapped into.