Teachers Still Torment Me Poem by gregory collins

Meaningless poetry is perfection, because at least
it is your soul's stain. Maybe thin in contours. Not

written while looking down from ivory towers, or
learned like resistance to life makes one conscious of dying.

But at least you brought me this gift looking self confident.
Like when i call out an honorable name anymore, it certainly

isn't Gods, or a photograph of my dismal history;
Which has the weight of a dropp of water in a funeral horn.

Maybe what i whisper is born and raised like a traveler of the wind,
like the stars are still there again tonight, and nothing is

more difficult than deciding what to stare at: The moon
that collects rags or has the rough sounds of being in my arms.

Or the stars that keep the treetops warm like a Buddhist saint.
They are devoid of all meaning, and like meaningless poetry,

depth multiplies and multiplies and now i am someone
waiting determined to break the placenta. Because one must

part from one world to have a new world open. One must
put my hands together more slowly than the sea, and its

rotten blue, like scars from the plague, that i see in the sky.
Far from my home like the rarest opportunity is memories.

It's the rarest when your eyes can no longer shed anything
but full length mirrors where i can see the reflection,

but the fire is too remote, thrown in the stove where all neighbors sleep.
Those fed up with meaningful poetry, from the prophetic few in the world.