the word ward

It becomes a difficult
nearly strenuous task
to write poetry when
you can sense the upright cock
at the other side of the gleaming screen
it’s bulging beauty detrimental for words
and toxic for madness
And so you become quite aware
that loneliness is the muse of all genius
and that you have surprised yourself
with your lack of professionalism
and the softness in your ways.

I recall the then
when he named me the pineapple
with coarse surface
and gentle fruit
And how I could not hide
the pain
and the horror
that sprawled each time
his eyes escaped
like my lack of understanding.

Now he calls me chocolate
and we amuse ourselves dearly
at the peace of the other’s sleep
the infinite possibilities behind the eyelid
similar to the unpredictability of our lives
similar to the buoyancy of an adventure
A landscape of sins
a nightmare of flight
a calendar fiend
the truth of a murky secret
all raveled in a helium twist
of lofty smiles
and addictive sounds

He’ll never make any sense out of my poetry
The most intimate expression of self
But that’s okay
because I will never quite comprehend
the relevance of color gradation,
or the sublime impact of fonts
or why he gets upset if I cannot decide whether a line is straight or not
And it’s also okay
because no one is supposed to understand poetry anyway.