TRACING FORESTS (a poem)

What’s a writer anyways? He said

I said, really

Some young

Some young amateurs

-As porn images come to my mind-

Amateur is basically wanting to be famous for being new at shit

We must wait 

And wait our self-steems dry

Until our papers grow their trees again
And fail. You don't need to 
It comes naturally

This ain’t 'bout clocks or medals

This hurt belongs to nights of random thoughts

A poet’s party where you stay a microphone
Stiff.

No one's home

Before the seed I’m tracing forests

This ain’t about their clubs or trumpets

For Riots I provide

It’s all about the cool words

Sent from up above

God’s fingertips are full of dirt and people's blood

And now I’m feeling strong 

With no surprises

And now we break the floor

As love surfaces

Old statues fall as we

The children of the dawn

Light up a torch

And you say: yep, it's done
Course not.


É.S.
2020