Every object
of desire
or disgust
I’ve ever
lives on as
a poem
inside my
head –

where their
memory can
do no harm
(to anyone
but me).

No thing as
beautiful will
ever exist

The act of
birthing it
for the world,
setting it down
on paper makes
it perverse;

a horrible translation
of your mother tongue.

There’s just too much –
can you understand that?
I bathe myself in words
because I know something
is missing and I will find it
out there somewhere,

bring it back home
and try to make it
in a world where
most endeavor to
be misunderstood.

I’ve spent
the majority
of my life suffering
the indecencies
you seem to seek out
and I can’t help you,
or help but laugh
at your circumstance;

filing you away
halfway between
desire and disgust.


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