Poetry, Marcus, works only when you drag that one thing that you haven’t told anyone, haven’t even dared to acknowledge, and splash it in all its unfamiliar ugliness over the page, warts and freckles and scars exposed to a horrified light.
And then, instead of the overwhelming relief you expect, there will come the realization that it was never yours, it didn’t matter and the past has been just a farcical caricature clinging to a borrowed mirage.
Well then that becomes the burden you carry, the muse that will spring a hundred more melancholic eulogies to time and love and the impossibility of living.
How many times can you spin around that same axis of phantom hurt.
As long as you’re still pretending to write poetry.
even the wind will stop
when it finds an ear
to whisper its last secret