It’s so hard for me
To break out of that stilt.
To cut my words free,
and make my voice lilt.
It’s a habit that is grown
from conscientious pride;
for each line to be alone,
its own concept to guide.
It’s too simple, too clean
to make these thoughts fit.
I’ve made it routine.
I’ve killed it, just a bit.
No poem can thrive
in some sanitized place.
It’s just not alive,
But stands: a disgrace.
Though sometimes I try
To let my voice grow:
To let it fly high
And find its own flow.
My writing’s on the shelf.
It must be for the birds.
For I strangle my self
With my own goddamn words.