It’s 4AM blasting music
So loud like you’re
Trying to flush the words right out of your brain-
Pumping words in to push your words out
Out through your mouth or better yet
On to paper so they can stay
Rather than falling past stars, echoing out
Never to be heard again.
Then it’s a tap faucet
Whose handle’s been broke
Just gushing out a toxic flow
Kneeling beside the edge of the bed
Head down, but I can’t seem to pray
The voice is too loud so I must let it out-
And the best part is it’s quiet.
Headphones and silence and nighttime and calm
Sound exists only behind my tired eyes
So loud in the silence of everyone else…
Then it’s 8AM waiting patiently.
Typing each line like it’s numb and contained
Stripping out deeper meaning
From each raw emotion
Like there wasn’t that 4AM commotion
Because days break us but hours heal
Because days are filled without all sorts of reactions:
Interactions and suspense
Running and falling, scraping
Against all the minds that exist in my town
Like a glacier
Picking up material- gently forced
To spit back out in the aching
Hours of the night
Who polish my surface again
Make me an ice sculpture
Out of the rawness of human nature
So my words purify.
You know what I find?
You can’t write about anything that isn’t completely personal
If you say you can it’s a lie
You can’t really write about the war in Iraq
Without touching on the war in your mind
You can’t write about monks who burned until they were black
Without feeling some of the blackness inside
So you write a poem.
And it’s all wrong
Twisted up and coded to death
But it’s beautiful.