my poetry

my poetry’s self-conscious
it’s leaping off the page
to hold me in the kitchen
and enact it’s rage

my poetry’s self-conscious
my lines are in the bin
it’s lectured me on metre
and the nature of sin

my poetry’s self-conscious
it says it would be better
if I lived a bit instead
of being vegetable matter

my poetry’s self-conscious
says it’ll live when I am dead,
now its gone out like a teenager
chasing some red head

my poetry’s self-conscious
sure election results can be good
it’s gone to cast a vote
according to its mood

my poetry’s self-conscious
sulking now by rote
of inflexible people
it hadn’t taken any note

my self-conscious poetry
is loose declaiming on the lawn
before an all-nighter
chasing moonbeams until dawn

my poetry’s self-conscious
blames itself for me
considers ways to end it
all romantically

my poetry’s self-conscious
this could go on and on
but having chased this tail
knows a need to be locked down

my poetry’s self-conscious
clambers back onto the page
muttering something difficult
about living languages


A.H / K.H-H (14th & 15th April 2020)

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