Contemplating Matricide – a poem about writer’s block.

(this is my sixth draft, for the record)

I am tired of this poems tyranny.

It should have never had an author

-no one ever wanted empty words for a mother –

and besides, it’s got it’s own agenda, to be

senior-management-textbook-verse

on the costly billboars in the skulls of the inspirable

to travel arrogantly across the ether into the same mindspace where it is rumoured

Howl made love and Oscar Wilde wasted his wit.

Instead it is stuck with me.

and maybe I can feel some small sympathy for this poem

cooped up and bound to such a dead end existence,

to raise me, it’s author, alone

(inspiration was never a faithful husband)

I might feel a bit of pity for this stupid and unclever poem

but mostly, I just smoulder and fester with resentment

that it’s me, that

I have to be the author of a poem that doesn’t want me.

Let me tell you about this poem this poem grabbed me by the ear dragged me from school into a corner gave me the beating of my life repeated this every day for the past six months this poem is a terrorist.

let me tell you that I have welts from my back to my brain from the whip of WRITE!

that I haven’t been able to call my friends, the police, because I had my teeth punched out for being unable to twist my lips around the word “ingenious”

and let me tell you that I’m desperate, I want to grow, write, up

leave this page

and since I’m desperate

I am going to

kill.

this.

poem.