Poem: Pencil
I wrote a poem about love and
It read itself and sneered,
yanked the pencil out of my
hand, flipped the eraser tip
into suicide grip and rubbed
its own limbs into obscurity.
Then stabbed the tip into a
part of my brain I’d tried to
forget, grabbed a writhing
bundle of words and fused
the longest ones it found
to the stumps that was left.
The poem is taller now, its
long legs and engineered with
precious metal rods, exotic
metals, gears and springs,
its arms draped in leather, beads
and hidden knives. But it can’t
stand without staggering
and it can’t embrace an idea.
And I don’t know what it’s
about. But it’s not love.
(2015)
