Man, I used to be clever (meaning this is an old poem).

I try to get the words out, the ones that
Brew until my nerves shout
But I don't speak that language


And I can't
Get it out. I breathe it in
And out and in and out again


And the poetry is dead
And the inkwell is dry
And when I think about it all my nerves start to fry


And the fire should be cleansing
But as I slowly burn I become covered in the ashes
Of the mind that I am losing in the flames.

War Cry of a Strong-Willed Child

[Author's note: Sometimes I worry that people will read my poems and think they are all based on events in my life. They aren't. I mean, some of them are, but many of them are based on my surroundings or mood amplified. Some aren't even about me at all. If I only wrote about myself I would kind of suck at this wouldn't I? Anyway, here's another poem for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.]

 
I wouldn't know what to do with adoration
I have no experience with that
But I thank you for your participation
And for being such a damn good sport

And I laugh in the face of your conflagration
That's what you get for your burning heart
For your words and meanings and lamentation
A ribbon-wrapped boot print for your pride

I am quite at home in my fortification
The walls I have built put me at ease
A warm bath has nothing on domination
Control is good to gnash my teeth too    

You watch me watch you in your self-flagellation
I see you clawing against my fence
None of this is literal confrontation
I just want to see hope leave your eyes

Don't fool yourself; I'm not waiting for cessation 
I put those hand holds there just for you
Much for tribute, but naught for decoration
Will you just Climb up here and fight me?