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Forgive me Lorca for I have sinned
My confession is made,
That these phrases that come from my hand
(These words they find so brilliant)
Are really nothing more than linguistic scraps,
Things I jot down on the back of an empty bag of potato chips.
Half-formed thoughts scryed in the smoke of my cigarette,
Bathroom grafitti in the train station of my mind.
Taking for granted these origami flowers
Made from the torn pages of thesauri.
Endless stanzas, couplets, feats of alitteration
That I carelessly toss aside
To be trodden on like sidewalk trash by the illiterati.
My confession is made
And now I do my penance,
10 Hail Marys and a life without words
Thoughts trapped in my skull like moths in a lampshade,
Learning how to speak in monosyllables like every other fuckwit.
Deprecating for too long, saying
It's bad,
It's garbage,
A 10-year-old could do better
And those nightblind words come back for me, truer now than ever before
Drowning in a sea of ink and humility, choking on strings of adjectives
Abandoned by rhythm and cast aside from Ibsen
These thoughts were trash before, lying lip service to my distorted reflection
Now look at this and see they're no longer impotent falsehoods.
Here is where I end this
Forced charade of pens.