my ultimatum between my inner self and the world: either i write about you in all your brutal ugliness and beauty, or i do not write at all.
Sometimes I think I was born with a TV ticker tape.
In the back of my head, like the news of
The world’s evil is constantly seeping into my subconscious.
I am so aware of the pain of the earth that
Most days I want to claw out of my own skin.
I go for two hours of normality, but then the gravity of reality
Hits, like all of the agony of humanity is descending to me
In one long scream. I drag my fingers through my hair,
Shouting back, I know, I know, I know you’re hurting –
But what can I do?
And the answer always comes to me
Like a host of angels to a desperate exile:
So I write about the bad and I write it hard, like
I’m the one chosen to exorcise the devils of the world because
No one else even knows the planet’s begging for a priest.
I finish each poem and lay it down as sacrifice, and
For a moment the screaming stops. But then
Another war begins or a famine strikes or dozens of
Kids gets murdered at an elementary school, and
I feel the sick buzz in the back of my skull. In a panic
I run for more paper and ink, with the dread knowledge that
The earth has just birthed another demon,
And people are weeping for me to make it known.