i spilled tea on this poem,
so it’s kinda difficult to read,
but i guess you’re not really experiencing it the same way,
since i typed it up all neat and polished—
some-what—
to post it, leave it, here on this interweb—
of-sorts—
a voice carries in the echo of darkness,
shrouding the atoms looking to be seen,
while hush murmurs play a chorus in a head
wrapped in syncopated rhythm as a thud
rolls upward, building into a fast accent
enrapturing an unknown audience
waiting in the corner, dark,
dark corner where even the stage lights
don’t reach, yet something’s heard,
and we’re off!
there’s a burn scar on my hand
that’s supposed to signify something
perhaps something that happened long ago
and i’m just not in the right headspace to talk about it right now
so maybe it’s best if we just drop the subject right now
and yes
i understand that i was the one that brought it up to begin with
but also
sometimes i can’t help but solicit attention for the scars
from childhood that seem to never go away
Fred Aiken Writing 