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(World Pain)

I write the same poem
over and over
like the Monet garden
painted on big canvas
again and again
my pen drips blood
instead of water lilies
comes in putrid shades
that press heavy letters
to each line
warning words in tiny scribbles
fill the page

I tried to change
the subject once
but globs of sweat
fell from my brow
blotting out sweet sentiments
so I returned to politics
I do not make up
tears of pain
I merely notice them
record them
my poet hand
tries to arrange a bouquet
in a cracked vase
I want to promise
we’ll wake up one day
shake the fear
that keeps us reactive
oh yes
I want to say
it’s possible
we can destroy the bombs
hidden in our basement
and not blow up our
or ourselves
you agree but insist
I take my finger off the trigger first
no way
not until I run out of ink



Copyright 2006