Fridge Poetry 18 - Grave Silence

My need of back luck got me here.

In my mind, my black heart,

gravely clever and

completely crass,

would protect me,

would alleviate joy,

lest my genius tempt tender collapse.

Under black language I got used up,

beaten by ennui,

broken by my art,

like art could ever let me feel,

as if my tongue would cover my skin.

But every crypt I see is too quiet.

All my life I’ve been myself,

and I’m set up on my shot at perfection.