this isn't poetry

by atti?

last time i wrote a poem
the sink spit me up,
while my belt loops sat alone,
waiting for the notches around my throat
to let go.

the footnotes at the bottom of my heart
beat more readily,
than the body of my work.

i used to think it was poetry
-before the lines turned themselves into a noose
and haiku's that read like bullet points
started to back fire,
through the backsides of a few ambiguous
water lines,
that were just shallow enough
for me to try and drown myself in.

i used to think it was a pen
-before it made a better weapon.

a few metaphors and three broken women later-
this isn't poetry,
it's a battle cry
that started as tears and went to war with itself,
and never realized the field
was never actually a place to step-
but who knew hearts could eat tread just as easily.

everyone wants their signature poem
-it's supposed to mean i love you;
but this poets love stinks like lust
behind red-rose revolvers that get used like crutch.

one too many rest their heads
on my barrel of monkeys from your back
fired into the last place you'd expect
to be dead.

i used to call this art,
because i didn't see pain it made.
my own splinter ridden veins where the page
like a mask without the eye holes
to see who they bump in to.
this depression wasn't meant for display,
but the day my scars stumbled into your arm
you wore them like the neglect
to which you had always set the stage.

search my poems for your answers
-because i don't have them.

i used to think i was cutting my own wrists
with the margin of this half finished poem,
until i watched you bleed
-and assumed you knew what to do
if you had the will to reed.

still writing
-i'll take your life away,
while reaching for your breath.
these poems aren't made for praise;
they only frame regret.

i'm the martyr of my every word,
followed by myself as the rope tightens
before a crowed town of my own emotions-
each one standing as its own person.

it was all for me,
until i started to see the strangers
scattered across the executioners veil.
it was all for me,
until a few decided to watch-
and they didn't enjoy my death
as much as i did
-because the parts of themselves they had put in me,
swallowed the axe much slower
than i really took the blade.

that broken heart doesn't entertain you
the same as it does the reader,
but i still write it into the story
because this isn't poetry, it's the overly dramatic truth.
so keep reading until your stanza ends,
and the next begins with another name-
and you can't enjoy the read again,
if the last poem hasn't already pushed you away.

so, ask me to write you a poem,
and i'll slit my wrists and dedicate it to you
-because i don't write poetry,
i kill off pieces of myself, for myself,
regardless of the voyeurs
with hands over their eyes
watching through the gaps between their guilty fingers.

don't ask me to write you a poem,
because i'm running out of pieces to kill;
don't ask me to write you a poem,
because i never will;

this isn't poetry.