.

The Perversion of Poetry is a Punishable Crime

  Its Abnormalities rather Disturbing

As we Converse throughout our Lives—

  Saying, Essentially, Nothing—

Through Internal fits of Anger—Tired—

  We Scorn—our Inabilities

To Communicate our Soul—Desires

  Into the Void—Infinity—

It Stares us Down and Mocks our Frown—

  It Laughs when we are Crying—

And All along—The Poet's Silence

  Makes All Aware—It's Trying—

Diplomacy,—too Ordinary—

  And Peripheral Conversation—

Small-talk in the Smallest Town

  Is the Poet's Fornication—

As Buried Words from Underneath

  Surface—Without Dictation—

These—that Speak—as we—Cannot—

  Arrest—and Demand Attention—

In Silent Prison—we can Finally See—

  Ourselves—In the Broken Glass—

We Torch ourselves in our own Hell—

  Praying—it doesn't Last—

And in the Intervals—In-between—

  We Learn to Love—Ourselves—

And All the things—we Never Say—

  Ring Loud—as Morning Bells.