Dead Art

I never chose this dead art,
never wanted to perch atop tombstones 

scrawling erratically with my hands becoming fossils,
scribbling haphazardly on any tabula rasa.

I didn't ask for this 
aversion to vacuity

I didn't ask for this internal voice demanding
that I battle makeshift monsters,

I am tilting at windmills
I am challenging thunder.

I have no blade, I clinch my pen
raise it as a shield in my defense
No answer is forthcoming
I can will no words to appear

What obstacle blocks their formation?
my palms have been pierced  

I saw fractures form from the conception
red revealed slowly from the split

wet whispers of mortality
rivulets down my wrists

I have maimed only myself
in melee against imagined beasts.

Nothing can fully capture the human heart
there is always some element lost,

when a performance is recorded,
when a painting becomes a print.

There is a hollowness where 
something just can't be expressed

no medium can
convey the condition.

I am eating my paints
I am drinking the thinner

I have pthalo blue on my tongue
and lemon yellow on my fingers

1 comment:

  1. you are right! words have power! and I like your poems.