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