Pinch Me

What do you call a poet without feelings?

I’ll tell you.
They’re a liar.
And not just a liar,
But a fool
Stunted silly
By self imposed mire.

For a poet who wouldn’t feel
Would be a poet who’d already died
For without the pain they’re running from
How would they know they’re still alive?

But as a poet who once stopped feeling
I found the very numbness brought distress
In fact, I found myself buried
Bracing for a tsunami of sentiments

Indeed, I couldn’t enjoy the still
For I knew what was to come
I realized the relief I craved
Would never come from being numb.

I was hollow without my sadness.
Inhuman without a hint of despair.
Restricted without any anger.
I was nothing because I had no care.

So I prayed I’d turn back whole.
Whether come hell or happiness or both in one.
I longed to go outside
And on my face, feel the burn
of a sun.

Indeed, it may get sizzly or uncomfortable
Or it may have me overwhelmed
But so help me God,
If I’m going to steer my life forward,
I’ve got to do so at the ship’s helm!

So as a poet who once lost feelings
I’ve got just one more warning to provide:
To deny what exists deep down,
Is to invite your death inside.

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