They say your poem doesn’t start
until you start telling the truth
Then we are all incomplete –
Unfinished rhymes and hollow lyrics.
My lyrics, the most hollow of all, fear exposure – Fear of this.
Cowardice kills better judgement and keeps its cursor static… Blinking.
I envision how a recital would go:
Honesty murders poetic drama, and the crowd stands in awe
Not of the art, but of the bloodshed that gave it inspiration
I really just want to write poetry,
but if starting means I must tell my truth,
I’d rather drop my pen and walk away.