I hope you’re well, I feel obliged to do a preamble to my poem because that’s what I’ve done so far. Truthfully I have nothing to say. I’m not a big fan of explaining poems, especially when they’re being read not performed because it is your decision how many times you indulge the words. I trust that I’m not doing anything spectacular here that you can’t grasp in an infinite amount of reads 😛 Enjoy…
What happens when the mind becomes a cavity?
When all things have been mined from it?
Creativity reduced to small pebbles.
Huge quarry, empty.
What happens when you are in the bottom of a pit,
skimming stones on ripples of dirt
because there is a dearth of all things good?
What happens when futile actions towards fertility,
are the most you can do?
Expectation has furnished your souls spare room.
He has brought a cot and filled it with embroidered pillows,
fixed a lullaby moon mobile to it.
Expectation has brought baby grows and nappies,
anticipating the arrival of something more than a pebble.
He does not understand why pickaxes cannot be swung infinitely.
He does not realise that at the bottom
certain rocks will break your metal.
He becomes angry.
You over soak yourself in all his fury.
You keep trying.
All you are capable of bringing forth is rocks.
You stop trying.
You play with your rocks.
You do not suck them, there is no sweetness in life for you.
You sit in this cavity,
rolling your rocks.
Contemplating chewing them.
Perhaps if you feel pain,
it will induce you to create.
It will make Expectation happy once again.