this poet

desolation flows out from me

leaking as if blood from a wound, rainwater from a broken roof.

and I let it. I help it. 

pushing it out, using it to paint the surroundings red.

red as in rose, not as in murder.

I use the tears - water to soften the clay that I mould. 

an artwork with tear stains that people say were on purpose.

yet, I strangle my best masterpieces, my most beautiful babies before they ever see light.

Maintaining the illusion that this poet is just a storyteller.

Not the recount of a victim's story, not an autobiography, all this is, is fiction.

Not something to be embarrassed about, an accidental paint stroke on an otherwise perfect portrait.

A song not on beat, abrasive and brash to the ears.

I cover the leaks, blaming the paint, the clay, the roses.

The pristine facade cracking, I accuse the deteriorating state of the paint, 

trying to hide the actual culprit - this poet.