There are people

There are people

Writers, critics

Who knows, who cares?

I hope they sleep better than I.

Do they wear nightshirts

I wonder.

Onesies or twosies?

Whatever,

But they do love to pontificate

Using language

As a sharp knife

To discourage people

From speaking freely

“It is not poetry if it can

Be understood on first reading”

What twaddle is this?

Leaven my bread

Break my stones

Tear the heart

From the broken vein.

We are all sold

The same flour,

But for some

The bread will rise

Higher.

Little is proven

In its deconstruction.

Rarely is it

As it means to be

But it seems to be

Writ differently

By choice.

Give me a lecture

You know you want to

I can see it in the tilt

Of your head

The laughter lines

Around your eyes

There is mischief in your words

In your smile.

Better by far

Than the gruff scrape

Of a cynic's voice

Though I doubt

I will escape it

Cut me down

Dis-em-vowel me.

I will bleed just as much

As the next man.