My words border on the overstated
and I lick my fingers as I intoxicate
the readers with my nothingness.

I laugh at my mystical lexicon:
They never mean anything
for I am a failure: can't help being in love
with my pseudo-creativity.
Similes curl inside me.

Those who read my verbose
need an overdose of patience
and maybe an elixir to resist my common
images. My muse left me:
she had to learn how to be a veritable jack-of-all-trades.
She will teach me how to bring poetry
to people and people to poetry.
It was a promise.

Silence is the new language I am learning at the moment.
My personal latitude is so far from what a good poet
should be.
My nails cry, my fingerprints dilate
I am in my mother's womb: there is half a chance
of being a good poet if I reborn.
Maybe I will ink my hands.
(Oh!I have salvation...)

Karla Bardanza

Copyright©Karla Bardanza 2011

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