peered into the belly of the beast
that toils for pageantry, theatre,
and the effervescent, only to exit
scathed; hungering for a steady
procession of apologies & confessions,
dressed in verses and metaphors.
we know intimately, what it means
to starve the artist in us.
unsullied emotions churn in the
darkness of the heart, poisoning
us with worded thoughts - palpable
syllables we exhale into the air
to warn others of imminent danger.
what we’ve used as coffins no longer
house the dead, but the artistic parts
of us we never expunged. we resign
to writing poetry in the corner of
our memories, penning a mausoleum
of all the words we never had the
strength to say.
