A Poem Dangerously About Itself
word
Isn’t “word” a weird word,
something blind and burrowing?
Where’s it going? Why so blunt?
What’s it looking for? Itself?
These shapes, these sounds, how
do they mean what I mean
them to mean? I mean
this group of words does
not make meaning nor a poem, yet
if I could turn these lines
against themselves, this line would be
invalidated and oh so very. What?
Full of itself, full of its emptiness?
Either way, it’s not a good beginning
for a poem, a poem meant, as I am,
to express itself, the poem totters on a single
that seems to mean and misses itself,
as I miss you, meaning, I miss myself,
meaning, I miss the point of you wanting me
to express myself, beginning and ending, as I do,
on a word.
–Ronosaurus Rex
