Walcott looks up at me from the blank sheet.
His eyes float on the rippling page.
He shouts at me,
"Dive in! Feel the Pulse of the Sea".
But I am filled with,
concrete Heavy philosophies.
Hamilton's moon creeps through my window.
It glows mightily before the sun comes.
She tosses me a poem that I wrote when I was thirteen and chants,
"go home, go home!"
The poem is much better than I remember and for a second I'm jealous of myself
I carve the word,
'poetry',
into the my notebook.
Nourbese mutilates my text.
She murders letters and leaves only
't r y'.
Try, try, try.
Try mayhem until your hands are bloodied.
because chaos isn't beautiful when planned
Clarke crawls out of my English Anthology and dusts off his shirt.
He turns towards the ballad on the page and yanks out a sharp knife.
He screams,
"let this blade spit,"
and stabs the text in the gut.
He flicks the stained knife at my page and droplets of ink and blood explore the emptiness.
The fluid spell out the phrase,
"make 'em uncomfortable".
"I know too much to let go", I scream at the bards.
"Forget!" they reply,
"Remember nothing, write everything".
So I jab the page with my pen,
and try to write as if I've never read.
