There's a poet inside of me

Inspired by Charles Bukowski:

There’s a poet inside of me.

A little boy,

Who shivers

And cries.

Who fills my gut with his tears and his agony and his

Little raindrops of hurt.

Until it all wells up inside me

And I vomit on the page,

And call it poetry.

 

I keep him subdued,

Because

He makes me feel things too deeply.

Too much.

I feel every sensation.

My fingertips burn with all the tingling.

But worse is what he does to my soul.

He rubs it—

Trying to clean it.

He rubs it raw; he rubs it till it’s red and bleeding and peeling

And screaming.

He does this until the pain is too much.

Until I give in,

And cry tears of ink onto the page

And call it poetry.

 

Some nights,

In between the dark walls of my bedroom,

He transforms.

Into a demon;

A devil from hell.

20 feet tall with greasy hair and

Creased eyes that hate.

He takes a whip and

Beats me. He takes his claws and cuts long grooves into me

Until I moan and whimper

And cry out. Until I surrender to insanity.

Until I slash my wrists and

Bleed.

Bleed ink onto the page

And call it poetry.

 

Other times he sits

And caresses my cheek and holds my tears with his delicate fingers.

He listens to my grief

When no one else will.

He kisses my neck and strokes my hair,

And whispers in my ear.

He tells me of love and hope and goodness

And peace.

He tells me these things again.

Until I let the words slip past my lips

And onto the page,

And call it poetry.