At Night I Throw Words at Street Lamps For the Echoes They Make (Bone Poem)

I have so many poems growing inside me

My blood type is B for bombastic

I wake up everyday hoping one of these poems will grow tall enough to see what God sees in me

But now I’m thinking maybe they should be growing in and not up

That maybe God isn’t looking down on us

He’s looking into us

Maybe that’s why people aren’t seeing what I’m seeing

Too busy looking to the clouds for a miracle

When they should be looking here [hands], here [eyes] and here [heart]

I carved myself empty just to make room for the reams of poems I have collected

I emptied out my stomach first, lined it with big oak shelves thick and strong

Bound poems in leather, left them to grow old for that old book smell before skipping my fingers through them daily hoping the sound of my pages will tell me something

Next I shovelled words into my lungs like coal

Burned them with smoke and sent the resulting signals through my throat and out of my mouth

And it’s always the same

“send more words, I’m as hungry as an empty dictionary in a silent film”

I hollowed out my heart

Upturned it like a watering can catching raindrops

To catch the sentences dripping like honey and whisky from the top of my skull

I’m starting to miss the time I didn’t have words overflowing from my ventricals

It was easier to ignore back then

When a set of eyes found their way into my soul

It was easier when I didn’t know how heavy the word love was

I turned my spine into a railroad to carry all of these creations between one another

If you hold an ear to my back at night

You’ll hear the rattling of my sleepers singing homecoming songs for the thoughts that transition around my body like a metal snake or a dancer in a suit of armour

There is a delicacy in this indelicate body

This is honesty

Fuck yous made of silk

Flowers blooming where ever they plant themselves

Orchards of fists ripe and ready to smash their knuckles into the dirt

Revolutions of kissing strangers

All this was born in the year of the pen

The year of the broken sentence and the half finished truth

Next year I will tell you everything I haven’t written down

Maybe by then I will understand where these poems came from

But until I do

Every time we speak

I will make boats out of your syllables

And decorate my life with things that refuse to drown.


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