The Poet

 

What I’m trying to do is impossible
Is that the right way to start?
You tell me.

What I’m trying to do is find words that don’t exist for feelings that do


God knows there are enough words
Millions of them
They’re everywhere – like gnats


 

Because none of them are quite right, 
I combine a bunch of them,
scrape their jagged edges together,
and cobble them into a monument to the inexpressible

This monument is a rickety thing at best
A healthy sneeze or note of skepticism will reduce it to dust
So I dig my hand through the tender flesh between my nipples,
pinch off a shred of my heart,
and gently set it on the pinnacle of words
in the hope it can hold things together 
long enough
that I will collapse before the monument does 



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