G. Z. Kieft

 

Hours and hours and hours pass by,
The words on this page
are erased
and denied,
I rip through each sentence,
intending
to refine,
But the endgame is hatred:
fatal and blind.
I’m slaved to my words, cemented and paved to habits and urge, I’m claimless like faith that’s been shamed by its church, the thoughts I display are delayed or reversed, and soon I am spraying some lame ass, failed verse, rehearsed ‘cause I thirst to conquer the earth, but low and behold I’m as common as dirt, I’m as special to life as a child is to birth, I’m putting my faith on this page and these words, but the endgame is hatred, I’m only delaying the hurt.