Poetry – Toxic

March 24, 2011

It is 4:30 AM. Sleep is somewhere out there, but it isn’t with me. I had the urge, so I spent some time n scribbled this poem out. It should mean a few things to many people. I know what it means to me and it’s honest.

I think of fiction as the art of deceit. Conversely, poetry is the art of truth. One day I’ll hopefully be able to both lie through my teeth and swear on a bible at the same time. Until then, you might want to read one of my favourite poets, Robert Lowell. The man never told a fib in his life.




You wouldn’t know it

from looking at me,

but believe me. I’m corrosive.

Not my touch. No words I say.

My actions will never confess it.

Though, hang around. Come close.

Soon there’ll be a tender burn

upon your brain. At some time

we might sit together. You’ll look across and

our eyes will linger a fraction.

Unconscious awareness will slip upon you.

Just a tingle questioning the moment.

It is your body rejecting me

yet you don’t feel a thing.

Chemistry’s at work.

Molecular antagonists have met.

I’m a slow acid and I can’t hide.

Pock marks show on you,

yet they embody me.

You’ll see me again and rub your eyes

from the stinging.

I can’t change myself. I change you.

My processes persist.

With no change nothing changes.

Two choices present themselves.

Leave or be dissolved. But, I’m staying

and I will burn burn burn.

It’s only natural and its only

your choice to make.





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