SLUICE GATE

 

Feel I'm running ahead of myself:

Cannot reach me; I sprint too fast,

All those poems a-springing steadfast,

Scarcely can be afforded by the pelf

 

Of time that my fingers can handle.

There are too many, cannot broadcast

To those that are willing to repast

Upon the sorrows' dark and gleeful candle.

 

So I keep showing off soul and brain,

Arteries open, suicidal hemorrhage,

No coagulation can this flow contain.

 

The sole relief is that you read me:

My pain the look of your eyes assuage,

And by trapping my soul, you set me free.