i eat poetry.

i
eat
poetry.
And it's socially considered a form of suicide, but
nobody seems to be or
let be or
leave me the hell alone. They
want to invade. And stain
over the words I've scribbled in my childhood closet, but
these words have leaked out of my mole skin poket and now
I vomit on the Donkey stage.
i
am
artsy.
So I disown the notion that I can't handle my emotions,
so I take this ink in this pen and set
its tip down into phonectic of poetic
asthetics.
And there is some
kinesthetic reaction happening-- where
I can't be apologetic to those that I use as
unsympathic bystanders.
i
will
succeed
But this is a matter
where I cant seem to shake the actor out of me.
So I bang and clatter and splatter my temper. Thinking
it's going to mean something when I get a degree
with three letters after my name.
i
want
to love
Because it doesn't matter that I was born from my mother and
crused with my fathers last name.
Because my claim to fame will
be the way I sign my name.
So live.
And be.
Just
be
just
be
and if it weren't for e e
cummings I would have never
eaten my first piece of
poetry.


-sonja lynn mata