This is a poem about confessions –
about a lack of connections –
about affection becoming an obsession
to cover insecurities with affirmation
and congratulations
because in truth
I’ve become so impatient that
feeling complacent has replaced my
ability to hold conversation and
writing is less a creation and more of
an exercise of soul persuasion-
a kind of forced adaptation that
usually involves getting wasted or
so inebriated that my train of thought
can at least be a vacation from allegations –
as if the page were a congregation praising
my inevitable damnation – “don’t save him”

But this is still just another poem in
a book of wasted rhymes and lines that
hasn’t saved me any time or
helped me understand why this kind of honesty
is tied to what someone else thought of me;
if who I could be – can be – want to be –
are all the things that seem to be
what’s lost between the binding and
my spine collecting dust on a shelf
built from what I never like to admit I felt
because
“oh well” and “I’m well” are both keys to hell,
and are just like frayed ropes hanging
on the ledge from where I fell

 

 

TM Colin Corpe 2018