PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I choose my words too carefully, and
Believe it or not, the teeth marks in this
Pencil are not mine.
The pencil itself is sharp enough to write, but
Not sharp enough for anything else.
Most things seem not enough, as if

I just don't have enough time,
Enough courage, enough willpower, enough self-control,
Enough brains, enough blood, enough breath,
Enough experience, enough age, enough cigarettes,
Enough bullets, enough pills, enough stories to fall to my death.

However, I have plenty of stories to tell,
Just not enough people to tell.
I don't choose my words carefully enough.

100 stories wouldn't be enough to fall
To correspond to what I deserve.
Maybe 1,000? Maybe none at all?
Maybe seven rings? To the bottom of hell?
No.
There's not enough hell to purge me of
This evil in my soul that I can't control.

My very old, my very sick,
My very weak, my very torn,
My very dark, my very dying soul.

If my soul was a school,
It'd hold no spirit.
It'd teach nothing but despair,
Self-pity, addiction, jealousy.
My god, the envy.
They all have no idea.

I envy people that envy none.
I am the detonator to my own bomb.
I am the bamboo chutes under your nails.
I am the desert surrounding your oasis.

I am the teeth marks in this pencil,
The eraser shavings on this page.
I am a vulture that eats vultures,
A fast wind on a cold day.

I am the water in your gas tank,
The burn holes in your blanket.
I am the oil spill in your ocean.
I'm the ever devious yellow lighter.

I'm Evan in his wheelchair,
Only I got no notebooks,
No photographs, no home movies.
I can't change one thing.
I can't change anything, and

If I could, I'd destroy who you are.
You are beautiful. You are light.
Based on my revolution, you are the sun.