the words
like tears
rarely come.
they cannot be beckoned
or summoned forth,
but the people
do not understand.
they find me
they sit me down
they say, speak!
i want to hear
your words.
most often
i am quiet –
the words are just
not there.
and the people become
irate,
incredulous;
their hearts flood
with soft murder.
they say,
you are supposed to be
a writer
an artist
a poet
( i am none
of these things
but
the people believe
what they want
to believe ).
well, i think
you are just
an idiot!
and i think
they are right.
mercy,
miracles,
illumination:
these are the things
they want
from me.
they want
precisely
what is not
mine
to give.
