R.I.P. Poetry

D. W. Metz

the poetry section

at the bookstore

depresses me;

it’s a tiny shelf

among thousands.

always looking

for something new;

six tiny shelves

stacked like coffins,

and almost all

a century dead.

i wonder,

is it just america

that no longer cares?

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Purging the Demon

From one of the best writers. A must read.

D. W. Metz

I still feel the burn some times. I look down at my wrist and feel a fire burning under my skin. The scars have long healed over, at least the ones you could see on the outside. Some times there’s a trigger and it doesn’t take much to make me remember. Some times there is no trigger, just that burning sensation under my skin. There’s a demon trapped in there. A demon that every day tries to get out. Some days he barely fights me. Some days it’s all I can do to keep him inside and not open up that old wound once and for all to let him out.
I remember the first time he almost won. I was twelve.
I was sitting in English class. I don’t remember what piece we were discussing. I’d been tuning out a lot lately, lost in a world of shadows day…

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just another breakdown

D. W. Metz

it’s happening again
but what it is
i don’t know
what i’m feeling
like my best friend died
or worse yet
someone i’ve never met
the urge to be a part
of what i’m not
even though i know
the imitation will kill me
but so does being my own
that i want to share
with the nonexistent other
who is mother sister
lover bodhisattva
bereft on southern shorelines
or ice cream parlors
or off for jaunts to london
sending back postcards
to console the sorrow
‘but without the pain
you wouldn’t be you’ she said
so who would i be
and am i alive
my rhymes and lines
taken for madness
i’m beginning to agree
as a simple perfume
takes my mind on a kite
to be tangled in the trees
with the child crying
maybe i should see a doctor
maybe i should see a razor
maybe i…

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