Sometimes they seem like a waterfall
Cascading down rocky slopes of indifference
To drown whatever was inside before.
Other times the words are shouted down
Outraged and demanding to be let out
To scream rage at at an unforgiving and hostile heaven.
But they’re only words
Lost in a fog of noise
Both internal and beyond
And shouted down by all the worlds
That might yet have ever been.
You know, somehow, losing never stops hurting.
Reason enough to hate poets,
For wounds that never close.