Poetry Attempts

mon stylo saignant

I’m gonna be honest here:

I’m not a good poet cause my pen is possessed, my mind is a mess

I don’t have a rhythm and I don’t like to rhyme if it hinders my thoughts.

I have a storm that makes me go in circles and trip

and sometimes the wind picks me up so I know how it’s like to drift,

even when I’m strapped with a seat belt in a car going straight.

I don’t like it when words taste like metal,

or when they sound like plastic

and for some reason I’m noticing this more and more often—

It’s hard to see invisible words in the air.

I don’t mean to seem like I don’t see you either,

cause everything’s a fast blur ’til I’m in my place

I apologize for each and every time you’re pushed away

by a gust of wind

The turbulence of bottling in,

trying to keep my lines even.

But the thunder doesn’t roll, it implodes

and my pen seems to move on her own

But maybe that’s because I’m in denial.


I know my pen’s true self when it’s just the two of us

She’s the most insane and frightening I know.

She rides with the clouds, no matter how dark

and doesn’t use proper grammar sometimes...

So I don’t always get what she says and why.

Cause she carries a glass filled over the top,

can’t help but repeat herself to herself

and would write in all caps like a slop...

Well she can say a ton of words that are otherwise numb,

And she can loudly scream without any sound.

But whenever she stops and falters,

I’d either hear the buzzing of words getting tangled up

or the crushing deep vacuum of outer space

And I’d remember that me and my pen are just like the same,

My reflection’s right here on the page.


And then I always have to clean up her mess so you can read it.

And it does seem to take a while longer

But it’s disappointing how it’ll never turn out just the way I want it to be.

There’s still a million other words that you just cannot see,

I cannot put two different sentences on top of each other if they don’t make sense anywhere else

And then there are things that just don’t fit anywhere at all.

And so I spend too much time trying to think of how to fill in the holes

so you don’t fall through

But I cannot fill in every one of them...


So I’d really love if I could just write out of the lines and

be able to see those invisible words in the air and

to never again find myself saying words that taste like metal.

Especially during times like this when when I’m terrified that you’d miss something important.

~ + ~

2 thoughts on “mon stylo saignant

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