For Me: Rare Finds Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I rarely make
Things for
Myself.

I hardly
Make
Stale coffee
To revitalize
A humdrum
Morning.

I seldom
Buy my
Own
Liquor.
At times
I steal
One
From the idle
Masses.

But let
Me
Write
For myself
This time

Because sometimes
I die
For myself
And not
For someone

It’s a pristine
Glory
To die
For
Yourself.

Now
Let me seduce
Myself
In such a morose
Candidness
Of
Things.

Here:
There is
Someone waiting
Out there
In the dark

To read me of
My poems,
And to
Share
A literary death
With me.

There is
Someone there
In the abyss
Gasping for
Breath from
My lips.

There is
Someone
Or at least
Something
In the desiccated
Portions
Of this
Torment -
Haplessly
Waiting,
Like a wayward
Predator
After
A shrewd prey.

There is
Someone out
There waiting
Or praying
For my
Presence.

I don’t know
But
I am getting
A little
Bit dazed
In this
Bigoted belief
A finicky
State
Of believing.

But the
Only measure
Of these lines
To make it
Sincere
Is to
Believe it.

And so
At least
For a day
Of putrefaction
Let me enjoy
This sapid
Accolade.

Wherever
You might be
In my
Dark islets
Present yourself.