I write poems
Almost in my sleep
Like dreams,
The wish fulfillment
Freud kept harping on,
I’m scared to stop,
Thinking if I cease
I will cease to exist,
Or get exiled
From Eden
For not having bitten
Into the forbidden fruit,
Clutching the serpent
By the neck
To keep it from
Spitting up,
These words,
These vague ideas,
Smeared across my belly
Just about the place
Where I ache most,
Counting out my life
Less in tea spoons,
Than in tea leaves,
I read, but do not
Aways comprehend.
I write poems until
I spill over,
Unable to stop,
Even if I could,
Unable to cease
Dreaming,
Unable to halt
The fangs that
Rip my insides out,
The only cure,
A temporary flow
Of words,
I write these
Therefore
I exist.
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