it came to my understanding
poetry is a cancer
(let make myself clear
it’s not like cancer - it’s cancer)
albeit a very subtle one
most people feel nothing
passing thru life without even noticing it
they are the lucky ones
the silent majority
those blessed with the unimaginable gift
of feeling nothing
they grow and eat and walk and piss
and touch and smell and laugh and cry
and fall sick with any other awful thing
but feel nothing
about it
although sometimes they may feel
the idea of feeling
poetry
but 
it’s only like some kind of weird thing
like a twitch or a déjà vu
you don’t know what it is
and you forget about it
the next day
but for those who can feel it
it’s a cancer
it’s a tumor
sitting somewhere nice and quiet
pressing against your brain
like a torrid summer sun against the skull of a slave laborer
in the south
only god knows why
you feel those things
t h e u n s p o k e n t h i n g s
you feel mostly the pain
and the joy
the blues
and the bullets
you feel the power of seeds exploding
the rage of disdain
the violin cord
cutting thru the red lean muscle of your heart
the loneliness
and the death of some other world
and 
sometimes
the pressure disappears
suddenly
you may never feel it again
you can live and die the whole life
like a baby
but sometimes
it comes again
and again
and again
until
it kills you
in its own metaphorical
way