People think these are poems
But they are more like adjustments
My bones crying out like
A door’s being shut
People worry my frame
sounds just like a breakdown
When comes the adjustment
You will hear me crack
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If they call me to answer
they can call me in Hell
I shall have my phone silenced
for I break when it rings
People ask for more
and then more of the same
From a man who can’t answer
without crumbling within
They think these are poems
I’m stretched to create that
Stretched to create this
and I still can’t stand straight
If pain is a virtue
I’m topmost among angels
If poems are adjustments
why am I still so bent
