poetry ar 4:09 a.m., left arm is numb and fear creeps in the bones

discover that poems
are mere feelings,

others
who succeed at this
craft

have nothing
to tell really,

falling out of logic
and taking side
with images
like a slide show

of
children's pictures
with their overprotective
mothers in
fantasy land,

riding on glazed teacups and
having pleasantries
with Alice
in Wonderland,

know that poetry is
a crutch,

a dam of
emotions, to protect
the fields of corn
below the belly of
the great river
of destruction,

you write more with
a numb left arm now,

the fear spreading
on the chest,in your bones,

as the hour
gets creepy, and
threatens you with
an abrupt goodbye.

there is a rush here
to take the bus

you're late for almost
every appointment,

it is raining and you
have no umbrella,

you step inside a car
only to find that
the heel of your right
shoe is broken.

fear has more to offer
now, than love and lust.

and then, you keep on
writing about it,

as though, words can
help.