poem 2

I guess sometimes something happens internally in which the poet can no longer be concealed. He must raise his head, his fist, and strike the canvas of the words he uses. There is no holding him beneath the surface. Once he's out, the poems pour out unstoppably.

I'm done.
No longer are you required
To compete with a ghost.
Precisely what that ghost is
I'm not sure.
Because it was never there to begin with.
Only in my mind.
Which makes its definition circular.
You can't define an item
Using itself.
Except in the case of the ghost.
The ghost was in my head,
Which is what made it a ghost.
And its gone now.
Dissolved by the tiniest amount of light
Coming from the shining glint of a blade.