/ Poetry


It's sad
It's taken
So long to write this.
So long the tight fists
Of psychic pain clamp shut
Applying pressure to a wound.
To keep as much inside
To keep from gushing
All over the nearest open ear.
I hush and bite lips
I push and pull and
Put my pieces in place
For the jolt, the frosty bolts
Of memory, I align
From north to south
Magnetically I keep it all
Pinned below my mouth.
Like iron, irony and prosody
Bound close, an anchor
I lift up while at sea.
Shore to shore but
Never put to port
I drift by zephyrs, I drink
Vesselsful of holy wine
For vespers of an all-night vigil.
Keeping watch for vain souls
In whose host I am named
For the ravenous cur
Of licention unbridled
Surely deserves a title.
In manner meek and morals
Premature, I endure the righteous
Scorn of better men
Their lineage hearkens back to gods
While gutters vent my vomit
I darken tree bark with my letters.
Spilling as a spigot tapping dregs
Kegs aplenty beside, but
I alone inside am empty.

Takeshi Takahashi

Takeshi Takahashi

I'm a technical creative, teaching myself visual arts as I have the time and sharpening my writing when I have the will.

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