Creative Commons License Fruit of the Muses

Here’s a poem, 

unlike my others

that repeat metaphor 

after masquerading metaphor,

in attempt to try and hide 

the fact that these

are the very words that 

eat, eat, eat

away at me.

I fumble with my hands,

tired and achy from wringing

and I use them to rub my eyes,

tired and achy from staying awake

all night, almost every night,

trying to figuratively 

describe myself

and the way I feel

in fancy words or rhymes

set up in stanzas meant to

break hearts or pluck smiles

from your lips and 

make them reach your eyes.

I’m doing it now, with this

wording, and the way I 

skip to a new line-

finishing a thought,

as if a brief pause

will bring out an otherwise

unrecognizable elegance.

I hide behind my words

of the stars, the moon, the sun,

old men, old hearts, old love,

and I’m no more of a writer

if I say that my eyes

are but the golden hue

of the whiskey that sad, sad

man at the bar

tipped back for his wife- gone.

I’m no more of a writer

if I say that the sun

slipped a note below my door

and I can’t hide beneath my sheets,

because I’ve read those words

before, and know that time

has come again for me.

I am no writer,

I am no poet.

Opaque  by  andbamnan