Thursday, February 21, 2008

Stamp of Approval

Writing is the diary of life,
so how do I expect
to write
when I sit indoors all
day every day. This isn't
life. It's fear. A poet
in fear is an absurd
thing. It's like calling
chronic masturbation a
healthy sex life.
Perhaps, my poems
are a chronicle of
a slow suicide--a folding
inside. I'm a letter trying to
become an envelope (why?).
Getting licked is better
than getting
read.

No comments: