(You know that God is not responsible for the downfall of everything he stands for! He is not to blame, because he risks his own identity from being stolen!)
I agree with Sylvia Plath
that a poem is dust
But would we be so sure
that even dust must
consolidate, to make us form, all of us?
Sometimes, I feel so lackadaisical
that I just watch the corners of my home
gather into cottons of unbroomed dust
And would I ever think the contours of my soul
would be cobwebbed with disgust?
That should I be wary of the perennial ghost of wickedness
that I have to relentlessly exorcise from myself,
my loves, and everything I cherish
And it is like an evil spiritless form
that resurrects from every follicle it sheds
And parasites or spider-grabs everything I bleed
Even the ink on the frail piece of paper
before it even dries up
Or whatever it should scapegoat
to make my stardust dissipated everywhere
inflame my physicality with immense pain
There is ignominy even in tears
that makes some other evil celebrate and capitalise on such weakness!
So, my poem must not be re-read
Otherwise, it becomes a contraption of my downfall!
Even my words cannot bestow my honour!
Do you think I should venture to disguise myself and everything,
so that the evil is always on a wild goose chase?
You know Sylvia Plath, you were too young to die of suicide
(with all your lovely ideas, many of them unseemly to others)
I never contemplated suicide
despite an ageless straitjacket by that evil
You can see that my boundless will has defied
a worthless evil that makes everything that is God’s
unworthy of God!
Yet God defines each of his particles of salt
as a substance of his gold without the dirt of treachery’s default!
I am indented by indignation, but I maintain my dignity
My vanilla can never become vapid with the morphing vapor of that treachery’s water!
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