Exposed by Eli Oko

I read dark poems about life slipping between fingers 

I find myself enjoying how writers explore the sentiments of life and death

How they flirt with the idea of ending everything 

How they claim to have nothing to lose 

But I sense they hold everything they work for within their lines 

The validations they have collected along the way 

“You’re a great writer” I bet they tell themselves 

Just before they close their eyes at night 

As they push everyone away and begin to enter their own personal solitude 

While they wait for words to appear to them like visions 

I enjoy reading about their miseries 

Or at least what they share 

Their ups and their downs and their exclusive tribulations 

I feel like I relate on levels I probably shouldn’t 

I know nothing about anything except for the things I know everything about 

I wonder what makes me so different from them

Then I realise that I don’t hold to the idea of losing things 

I imagine myself gaining everything 

And then as I make choices that separate me from that reality 

I peer into my new future wondering why I purposely messed up my own chances 

It’s an instant thing 

This process

The process of giving and taking from myself 

It’s instant

So when I read the sentiments from the writers

I feel pity because at night I too tell myself it will all be okay 

I wait for words to appear 

And then when they do I grab a pen, or a laptop 

Or now just my phone 

I grab hope

That maybe when I finish writing this vision 

It won’t be another dark poem about life slipping between fingers

Holding everything worked for within its lines

Maybe this time it won’t be the reason why I ended phone calls 

Told him that I’m tired 

Or left myself vulnerable and open within my art

Deep in my personal solitude, feeding my miseries and dwelling in my exclusive tribulations 

Helplessly Exposed.

Maybe this time I’ll be the one to start conversations

And instead of rushing off to peer at the writers from the other side 

I’ll be satisfied with the side I reside 

And when he makes a joke, I’ll laugh.

Because that’s true poetry, right? 

When you appear to be fine, but feel helplessly exposed. 

Any Thoughts?

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