Wanting to
say something,
but knowing
what might be said
is likely to
be misunderstood,
misinterpreted,
or simply ignored
is the
parasite of poetry.
A parasite
so crafty in its
burrowing
that there’s seemingly
nothing that
can be done to
extricate it
from the grooved
surface of
the words.
It gets deep
inside, gnawing and
chewing on confidence
and
joy, on
happiness and self-worth,
this parasite
of doubt, this
twisting
monster.
The most
carefully crafted words,
strung
together in elegant strands,
prayers for
the right response, any response,
vulnerable
to intentional silence
and
dismissal.
A parasite leaving
behind trails of
unamused
anger as waste
and spitting
up bilious clouds
of contempt,
mistrust and
a general ennui
for the future.
Coiled in
the mind, repeating
the second
guesses of insecurity,
in whispers
and hushes,
casting
shadows over the next
hope, the
next kiss, the next love.
Wanting to
say something,
wishing for
something to be said,
hoping for
understanding,
acceptance
and acknowledgement,
a parasite
of a different kind.
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