2:31 in the Morning Before Sleep

My Adrenaline is the Only Poem I Can Offer

I wish I could still write from a bleeding heart. I wish I were lying when I say its dried out. My romance is a ghost, or better yet its a blink, or a twitch, an involuntary movement, independent of me. A muscle spasm that acts mechanically, automatically, like the tongue of an alligator connecting nerves and muscles to its locking jaws. You place a romantic situation before me and I can react romantically but its really all gone. Not the act, just the words. I cannot write poems and love letters like I did when I was younger--I felt they meant something then, they came directly from the pipeline that lead to the explosion of feeling that could find no other exit, success or failure, it jumped out regardless. But after jumping out so often, it developed technique and style, became aware of itself, grew mirrors and admired what it saw. I cannot write a poem without finding almost default feelings that approach my lips like ready-wrapped presents at department stores. This is why these days, I prefer the unexpected surprises of actions over love letters, my words have been replaced by smiles and body movements; by the heart beat itself rather than any iambic pentameter or metronome. I'll speak the truth when I just keep silent and move because I don't have time to think up or analyze a rhythm or strategy--I don't have the luxury of preparation, so instinct seems the only choice. Maybe it'll succeed maybe it'll fail, that's irrelevant, all that matters is that it once again, is coming from that familiar pipeline I thought would never find its way back to the explosion. Its been awhile, I miss that explosion.