VERBOSE

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