The concept of sarcasm has always been foreign to me.
Unless spoken in poetry, its boundaries, its principles, remain to me forever elusive.
In a room with scholars of its concepts, I am often left with scratches on my arm and bruises painfully decorate the back of my neck. ​​​
​​With a swollen throat and broken voice and a room filled with echoes of laughter so loud that it shatters my eardrums and breaks to pieces the fragments of my already fractured soul.
In this dining room of its scholars, my blood is the wine they drink and my tears the salt for their meals.
I am left at the mercy of their knowledge as i fall to my knees, the weight of its meaning heavy on my shoulders.
So I turn to poetry for it's solemnity.
For in my poetry, its meaning I find in the cadence of my rhymes.
Its concepts carved into the fragments of my poetic soul held together only by the metaphors in my words.
In my poetry, there is no foreignness in its principles and there is understanding in its abstracts...
So in a room of scholars I sit alone.
Scratching sounds fill my corner.
The frenzy of my hand independent of the fluttering of my eyelids.
Pen to paper
Paper to poetry
Poetry to blood.
© Mae