when did poetry, 

my sole place of freedom,

become

yet another cage?

“put a bow

on your hell—

tell us 

how it’s actually heaven.”

“swear 

up and down

that your ugly bits

are pretty—

that there’s somebody out there

who sees it

worth redeeming,

that you, in fact,

do not tire of waiting.”

“make a song

of your screams,

and paint

of your blood,

and sweet, sweet mercy

of your bottomless grudge.”

“tell us,

while the tyrant rules,

that good 

has the final say,

that,

in spite of the night,

we’re each promised 

beautiful day.”

“create and take

an opiate of your choosing.

wrap these lies

in ribbons of truth. 

and, while you’re at it,

go—

paint your decay 

in a mask of youth.”

“yes, deceiver—

write us poetry.

swear to us, deceiver,

that it will all

be okay.”