My throat is always asking for more of less
Its grasping at straws that live in it (ideals)
Suffocating from answers and reasons
It doesn’t want anymore
Of those fists full of retorts and anger
Bantering of sarcasm and rancor
Its grasping at a push
It wants out of its existence
My throat is a clear container
Of letters all boggled up (emotion)
Talking seems to be shaking up letters
Only to see them end up the same
Making three-letter words
Of hat and cat and mat
Nothing more in these ‘answers’
Than in Dr. Suess’ cancers
My throat is sick of opening up
For the rush of lush gush (love)
Its forever closed to immigration
No one from anywhere else has any new
Ideas.
My throat is tired of my brain
It doesn’t ask the forecast of weather (wishing)
“Wednesday showers will bring dead flowers”
It thinks sorrow is an excuse of hope
For an accurate report of today
Check back during tomorrow
My throat is acrid but also dry
It once witnessed evaporated Catharsis (change)
That was this orange card with punched holes
And black printed signs of breathing
Spaced by millimeters or room
My throat opened up once more
Though it said it did not want to (last time)
And all the spaces were taken
There wasn’t anywhere left to fill
Up
But there was reddened air below it
So in entered a back door.
Out went everything
And open aired and uncoalescing
Finally - silenced.
