Shame

Can you write the poem for me?

I just can’t do it now.

I’ve exhausted all the pride I had.

I’ve shot that holy cow.

Can you write the poem for me?

Can you tell me what it means?

Your love was where the poem was,

in sacrificial need.

Sometimes I would trace the lines

but never did it well.

Now that I can see what’s what,

my pencil’s gone to hell.

Can you write the poem for me?

Can you show me one exists?

All I’ve left are empty sheets

and useless, rotting wrists.

Can you write the poem for me?

Can you tell about my shame?

There never was a poem, hey,

beyond what we can name.

There never was a poem.

There never was a me

beyond the shame that cuts and slashes

now that I am free.