Some poems are their own confessionals.
secrets unto themselves,
are a dagger in the back,
most days they can’t stop the bleeding.
Some poems would rather be hidden,
get rid of the blood
in a public toilet stall,
clean the rust off their fingernails
beneath lukewarm water
before anybody can see how old they’ve become
These poems don’t want to be seen,
bowed heads in feigned prayer,
wouldn’t know what to do
if they caught the eye of god
but still toss rocks
at the sky
Some poems would rather be god,
vindictive and cold in their holding,
would be miracles,
save you from themselves,
would be the end of the world,
silent and fading and alone.
Published with permission © Xabiso Vili