Do I Sound Like Poetry?

When I speak,

Do I sound like mystic poetry?

She said that when women speak,

they sound like poetry.

But if I do not sound divine,

Am I not a woman?

Am I just envy,

envy for your Taryn?

I do not resent,

I do not hold grudges,

but I wish I was her—

I wish I were Taryn.

So you gave that tag to me,

called me your another entity.

Do I really wish to be her?

She has been trampled,

thrown from bridges,

yet she stands

tall like a mountain.

Maybe that’s why

I am not her.

And that might be the reason—

she’s Taryn,

and I am still me.

But I yearn for the tag.

The question still asks:

Do I sound like poetry?

Because she did—

and she always will.

What gluttony I hold over love, that

I beg the ground that gouges my knees.

I carry a mirror that unhooks every image of me.

Enamoration infuriates me—

But why does it always turn its back?

Am I not poetic enough for my muse?

Or does my paramour cherish that lady—

The one who insists all women sound like poetry?

My voracity devours all it crosses.

Now my enchantment is swollen under my enchants.

My engorgement consumes the light,

And now, everything has turned dark.

My entity, my muse, and all that I had—

They dwell now in those brown eyes.

So my greed, hungry to own it all,

Wolfed down not only the sheep but the shepherd's call.

If the divinity is as humongous as they claim,

And if my hands fall apart when I try to sanctify—

Does it bother the deity if he is vast?

Does he care when some flesh and blood

Refuse to bow their head

And place their hands together?

Does this pester his ego—

When slender, fragile humans on his earth

Decline to hum the hymns of his praise,

Even deny his traces?

Does this ache his soul?

If he's so great, so forgiving—

Will he still care

When will everyone stop worshipping?