The Chaos Inside.

Another Mundane Storm.

The tide of poetry sweeps over me,

Tracing meaning and substance

Into the wild dust storms of my emotions.

I question and I seek

The point of all this feeling

The reason for noticing and for wondering

Why? Why do I find myself so blind?

So helpless, undone?

And there is no point, or so says my head

Into everything I've ever done,

Or felt, or thought, or spoken.

I'm not good enough, says my heart,

And speaks like she knows-

Knows it to be the truth.

And I believe her.

I am attempting to write something down.

Attempting to hold on to that "talent"

That trace of identity I once had

But, all that I'm left with

Are these tired, fragmented,

Incoherent sentences.

They kept popping up in my head,

Trying, like all my words do,

To add some color to the darkness,

The stench of decay in my head.

They popped up,

And I sentenced them to this paper.

Maybe out of mere formality,

Maybe to stop people from asking questions

It's not poetry,

No, it is not verse.

These are just words on paper,

Words that floated up on the tide-

My wild tide of emotion.

Yes, I know I contradict myself.

But then, I am, but confused.

That oft-asked and plundered question-

What came first?-

-Poetry, or emotion?

And still I contradict myself,

And call this a poem,

Though I know,

It is not poetry I'm writing.

I said I'm grasping at the very last

Broken, desperate shreds of my identity.

And yes. That is what I'm doing.

And yet, I see it slip beyond my reach.

My last effort- fruitless, vain.

Why do I feel no pain, O why?!

Where goes the emotion now?

Why is it gone?

Why is my heart bland?

Tasteless.

I do not know what came first

All I know now,

Is that words out-stay emotion.

Words put emotion to bed.

Words bury emotion-

In ink, dots, sounds and paper.

                                                                                                           -j.t.