O this learned and engrained sickness,
this obsession with words, sadly,
I must admit I am terminally afflicted,
The words they grow inside like a loving cancer.

Venomous habit,
this tangled practice:
manipulating spider webs
of suffering
into ivory orchid offerings.

In vain I can strain my mind all day
but alas, to no avail,
this veil still obfuscates the space between us.

Intruding and impeding, uninvited
they filter through my web;
mosquitoes blemishing naked summerlit flesh,
bits of lead and calcium
accumulated in my seer's spigot,
muddying the cup
from which we sip and share.

Like a horse with blinders,
these words keep me running along
this never ending-short lived-straight forward-circular track
The words whip and I obey!

Hah these silly empty abstractions!
Such a laughable pity how
they have made me their slave!

But let me be honest,

I'll never have the courage to run.
There's no escaping- they are my escape!
I could never bring myself to abandon them
I've grown too accustomed to their phantom, poetic world

My whole life is built upon these abstractions!
I've grouped people into three basic categories:
Inspiration, Support and Distraction!

O to find haven in the land of pure color and image,
to communicate through the soul
and forever keep my mouth closed!

O to be a master of psychic intuition and animal instinct!

Dry and brittle, these words, a carcass, discarded bone
void of all essential marrow

Bloated and lifeless, these moribund words, this poem
lacking all essential qualities of health and meaning.

Gregory Allen Uhan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/if-only-i-was-a-painter-old-familiar-feelings/