Dear poetry,

Apologies. I know I've been inhumane. I kept you
Mute. Sellotaped your lips [my book]. Your yells
Ricocheted into your throat like a bullet against a
Bulwark, hot! It reverberated like a Gong. I rained
A library on you like stones on Achan. For that's
How best I could bury you. I caped the heap with
My big Bible like a Rose on a casket and smiled.
All I saw was a poet who buried his magical
Madness manual – a scripture wherein grief, with
Menace, sucks him head to toe. But an orifice is
Always given. Just one. Where he thrusts his wrist
And scribbles his darkness – his only defence – one
That airs his plight. What miracle, what healing is
There in the explanation of vexation &
Simultaneous generation of grief? When your book
Is another whip, you read yourself "ladies are 
Medical madness mongers" & you weep again into
Yesterday. So, do you blame this boy for digesting
The grains of the Lord's prayer? For being a mega-
Phone – emitting the gospel?
But lo, I pick up my Papyrus again like an addict –
Too addicted for a break to break off, dip it in the
Great pool in me. A libation. An apology that the
Attrition of words don't seize my sleep for a
Penalty. Dear poetry, you've written yourself into
An anthology in me. Vacation isn't your revenge. I
know. My fear is how this Mississippi will break
Through me – a needle eye.

Yours poe(m)tically,
A poet.