It’s long been written

An amusing poem between letters, words and numbers. Enjoy.

the Book of Pain

I

Poems have conversations between themselves
about us behind our backs, and what’s worse,
with total strangers. Yes, they lie meekly
enough on the page where we place them
but this is all a sham, because among themselves
they bunch into cabals and define us and measure us
and to be honest, find us generally wanting—
although wanting of what they’re not sure.

It’s best to let them all go. That’s what I do.

II

Words know that we isolate and abuse them,
split them and twist them and sneak them in wrong.
They know when and how they’re hard done by
and that they get old, become jumbled and confused,
get left places where they ought not to be
and are ‘re-purposed’ out of retirement,
when they should have been left all alone.
Then too, they get lonely and search for
solace and meaning between where they are
and where they aren’t, but mostly where
they…

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