Obsession (Revised) Poem by RIC BASTASA

to believe that there are heights to my own glory
is no longer possible.

On that day in that room, where they wear
all their thick glasses, their hands have already done
what should not have been done.

I was weak, and my mouth did not open.
They kill every poem i had in my palms.
They were doves.
They said they were bats.
Black bats.
No, i said they are the whitest doves i have.
They are even angels.
They were laughing.
Some giggled.

And they
said, 'Crucify him, crucify him! '

IT was an obsession.
That i have butterflies on my hair.
That there were
red roses in my fingers.

There were none, in fact.
What i had are mere words.
Syllables of my survival.

When i left that room, i did not admit that it was my mistake.
Far from that,
i look again at my hands in the mirror,
and i saw

vines, fragile tendrils, and they are so alive, like
dragonflies.

One understands somehow, that we write, not because we want
to have a brand, a name, a tattoo

a heart, a rose, an arrow, blood dripping

NO. That is not so. We write because we are here and our fingers
are always incomplete.

We press our palms on our chest and we say
Look i love myself, and this all i got.

Let me write and let it all be about me.Not for those thick glasses
Inside that room.Their rules are not mine.

I have mine only to give.