The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics


Letting go of the hands full of flowers is hard,
but their fragrance has begun to choke me,
and I cough so hard,
it pulls the fibers of my spinal cord,
rattling my entire body,
everything is unclear and drowning seems inevitable;

I fight the diseases,
every single moment
of every single day,
and everyone around me says,
hang on – it will get better…

I’ve been hanging on all my life,
it does not get better;
the beatings come in different forms;
I am tired – bruised, bloodied, broken,
I loved with all my heart,
and it was mutilated – put through a meat grinder,
I cried all the tears,
and then some more,
I felt the highest of highs,
and all the increments of feeling from that high,
to the bottom, where sediments lay,
the disease of my brain opening every door on every floor…

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 1 AM

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