…words weep onto the page
like tears too long restrained they stain
the reader with the poet’s pain they burn
they ooze they scar the skin deep
within they take the soul to places
it does not want to go they make you
know the truth of things how hearts
are broken words are spoken
that destroy they tell it
like it is this thing
called poetry is harsh is cold is hot
is ragged as a beggar on a dark night
street is wicked as a thief that steals
your innocence the walls you’ve built
will crumble in the fire of its wrath
it speaks of hearts
that melt then bleed abraded by the blade
that some call love above all else
it speaks a kind of deadly truth
how time destroys the bloom
of youth
it steals your breath admits that death
is real forces you to feel peel away
the layers you have hidden under submit
to rage and then admit the lies
you’ve told yourself when cowering
beneath the sheets
poetry tells us that
we live we die and dead
is dead words implode
inside our head and that I think
is why
no one reads poetry and so
this poem
a stricken bird will settle weightless
to the ground and die
without a sound…
Susan A. Katz (All rights reserved)