Extirpation On Hold Poem by GRANT FRASER

I need a new word, I do,
One that eternally rushes
back,
Look! I missed you...
Nobody ever speaks me, like
you do,

Your a lover,
A man who shapes ever slowly
then bakes, until every meaning
has a distinctive taste,

Why - lets face it - inspiration
should never be wasted,
on account of everything we
think, would it be the thought
that mounts every situation,
for we get lost sometimes, even lazy,

And yawn over the fact
that the poetry has somehow
gone missing...

Can you make it, knead your
specific way or shape, and steady
the very urge to your heart,
brain, mouth...

For It ain't your soft enclave,
or of a bruised mark in your verbal
vein, jutting out!
About to spurt out the whole
entirety, of a search,
that crosses you out as a nobody,

As the might
of your most penetrative eyes,
Burns self's Cyclops
to a crisp!