I cram words within murky, hollow spaces,
replicating ways in which blood fills a wound.
I squeeze articles and adjectives
supporting metaphors and similes
into tight-fitting corners,
until that which is empty begins to bloat.
The ache of something missing,
the loss of one internal, now painfully unknown:
it finds no satisfaction within passion
and phrases so desperately created, upheld.
Why give transparent, misleading hope
Does pleasure derive from humiliation
the catalyzing of previously weakened hearts?
Where is the limit of cruelty defined,
if not in the cries and weeping of dreams:
Language wilts on my fingertips,
turns to ash in my mouth
the gorge in my throat which partakes in
how significant is agony endured within silence,
inside pitiful thoughts?
It is nothing notable of specific emotion,
only biting veracities upon repetition
and foolish belief:
"I am no poet of words."