Attempting to catalog my brain like some runaway poet on speed or maybe tussin—
Hoping for a witty line to save my skin from another internal infection—
Not knowing what the next words will be—
Not knowing who will see them—
Or who will want them—
Other than me—
Or even me.
A cramped style of a word I cannot think—
Haunts me like a movement out of the corner of my eye—
You look and it’s gone but you know it was there—
And that it will be there again—
To cause you grief, again—
Or maybe this time pleasure.
It is indiscriminate with the emotions it doles—
Anything to satiate it—
Anything to get its kick—
Feed its need for heightened life.
The kind and generous and equally hungry being you are—
Willingly and even gladly consent to this exploitative form of exchange—
An interrogation gone off kilter—
It takes what it will—
And gives out the same—
And you feed like a starving pathetic creature—
Thinking it your only salvation.
But fuck salvation—
Because that is hardly what this is about—
You don’t think that far ahead—
You don’t look beyond what is right in front of you—
In front of your eyes—
Wide and pleading and wanting and needing—
Like anyone would—
When that’s all they know.
Another victim in sight—
You feed again—
Absorb through osmosis—
Every ounce of their being—
Until there is nothing left—
But your unending quest for genius—
In the form of reckless creativity.