A poem, metaphysical, is still a sketchbook
your mind can stretch in, planning elaborate ideals,
that, when written, jet off like a squid
and leave only a splattered ink blot on the paper.
Between thoughts and language lies a barren battlefield
where poems exist as phantom limbs: lines can form,
but with disconnect within; a frayed wire, a tangle
of nerves that breeds desire, but no words.
Poems must burst out of the dilapidated language
that houses them, like the forest fire that begins from
one strike of lightning inspiration.
Poems must stick raw to the physical world, a thread
caught bloody to an open wound: an intense
agony that still echoes years after.
Therefore, poets must cast their shots into the night
over and over, until one finally catches and becomes a
pinprick of light, standing out among the ink-spilled sky.