Too Much Poetry

The problem with writing too much poetry

Is that you will fly to blank pages

Your hands warm with some new spectacle

Your eyes alive with fresh theatre

Your heart throwing irrational numbers in uneven heartbeats,

All of your body will conspire to

build a jigsaw of your seconds

rub sandalwood paste on hot stones

To freeze the design of your blizzards

To achieve the impossible

and cage the Sun in a snow-globe of your verses.

But your words will have been loaned to some poem you wrote yesterday

On an emotion that seems too cheap for the loss.

How many times can a poet talk of fire, laughter and moonlight

Before the gallery of his work becomes a dictionary of permutations?

Before the prism of his soul becomes a vomited rainbow on broken bones?

Before the clockwork of his chest becomes noise?

And no poet can suffer to hear

disinterested audiences grow uninterested,

No poet can suffer to see

His experiences being called a ragdoll of clichés