Hot wax words dripping
In my mind tonight
I could have been a poet
I could have made those words to sing
In a garden where all the thumbs are green
Not just this stubby candle
Not just these idle seconds
Between being someone else
I could have been a poet
Maybe I still can

I understand your anger.
I do.
Muscular sinuous anger
Writhing around in the severed head of its own den
Unable to bite, refusing to die.
Carved from your own soft flint
Yearning for the feeble sparks that speak
Of fire being birthed.

I understand the way it curls you up
Into fists
Love to punch
Your mind into people's heads.
You know,
Them. Out there.
Too blind to stand in your shoes
And gaze at the neat knots
Wound in your laces.