Spoken Word, Don't Destroy My Work
To the person reading this poemTo person hovering over this with their eyes and a pen
Waiting to say kind, patient words in response, do me a favor:
Stop it.
Don’t Patronize me.
I did not slave over life with hammer and anvil
Shaping my goals into a masterpiece.
I didn’t paint it onto the ceiling of some church,
Going blind from the pain and the stress.
I didn’t waste any time.
And while I’m writing this,
You can bet I’m not concerned with lambs and troches and Italian terza rima.
No, I’m concerned with how much water is left in my water bottle.
I'm concerned with my dreams and achieving.
This isn’t a masterpiece.
Who are we kidding?
I just write because I am.
You’re not going to hurt it, and you most certainly aren’t going to hurt me.
Stop it.
Don’t patronize me.
I don't want you to destroy my work.
I don't want you to rip it to shreds with sadistic dominatrix glee.
Tear it apart from margin to margin;
Laugh openly at its crippled, struggling body.
Stab through its sputtering heart with the sharp edge of your pen..
I mark this as your own.
My release from the world around me.
You don't need to handle this with all the delicacy and surgical precision
of a butcher in a slaughterhouse
of a Craigslist killer and rapist
of Caligula ripping a baby from his sister’s womb.
Harsh, no!
Touching this is like ripping through my dreams
Jabbing a knife through the soft flesh of my stomach
And gut it like a fish.
Watch it gargle to breathe as letters pour out of the wounds.
You want persona?
I am the speaker.
This is my humpbacked, pulsating blob of a poem.
And you are Jack the Ripper.
You are the sin the the evil is trying to place upon me.
Don't destroy my work.
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