"This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level."
- John Ashbery
Beneath me I feel anger lurking, this
recognizable pang that sets fire to me, so I write a poem.
My words ball up inside of me, a fist that is
constantly opening and closing, and I'm concerned
that if I release them with
the intensity they strike me with, will the language
burn the reader, too? I can't go on
with these words and thoughts scorching my mind, a
tiny tealight candle melting through the very
thoughts that lit it. Other than the inferno, my mind is plain,
infested with usual thoughts, the balance level.
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