August 2017

and at the end of the day

you’re just another typewriter

illusionist, Self.

you talk of poetry and truth,

of the rawness of existence, but

it’s all words || words empty words, 

you Judas of aesthetics,

Traitor to genuine emotion:

tear down that Hemingway façade!

those hollow mind pictures you

shock to life with quill and keys

i know (i know) you run from pain.

i see every word you cannot 

bring yourself to write:

the bleak words, the cheap words

the cry-out-in-sleep words,

the hurt words, the curse words,

the selfishly worst words.

the burn-against-ribs and 

the dragged-through-the-dirt words.

you feign unburdened heartstrings,

lock despair in a cage,

because weakness is ruin

and good girls don’t rage.

( m e g )