About To Write Poem by Joshua Bantum

Suppose to write,
Assumed to write,
To write of love and hate,
About dead lilies drifting
Upon the graveyard lake,
About rocks tied to animals legs,
Drowning,
About the stories consumed in stories
By stories,
About an analogy bound to a metaphor,
An allegory behind façades.

But often more recent,
I’m stuck without a muse,
Without a meaning begging to be portrayed,
A feeling not nagging to be let out,
And perhaps guilt is the only fuel I have.

I often try writing with intention,
With a view I wish you’d ware like a mask,
Skin of skin, eyes of my eyes,
But this time, I have not even that.

Usually from there I move to lust,
Scrambling for purpose or meaning.
Like beauty from a cold bare structure postured in a field,
The rain slithers through her pores,
She crosses her hands laying them above
The small patch of hair between her legs,
Her nipples harden to the winds persuasion.
She stands brilliantly molded by time,
Ignoring all that which tries to destroy her,
Weather, lovers and fate.

But even that does nothing,
I feel nothing from her, or
The long grain grass swaying
With
And then
against her hair,

So what then?
What is to be written next?
I am suppose to write,
Assumed to write, but
That is not how it works
Always.
Most things only get finished when
The illusion of
Want,
Gets torn away like curtains,
And through the window,
You witness your
needs,
And those are the things worth bleeding for,
Destroying for
Those are the things worth writing for,
But harder than killing for it,
Dying,
Or loving for it,
It’s the most difficult entity to have to wait for.