What am I?
What am I?
I don’t know.
Maybe a scream searching for its name in the dark,
maybe a child with scraped knees
on the burning road,
a man with his throat clenched
by the noose of stars,
when the church bells shatters
Beneath the hammer of silence.
Or perhaps I’m just a mute
with no one left to scream to.
I write these poems
not to be read
by some fool in branded glasses,
but so I won’t dissolve into noise.
So I won’t get lost in a foreign language
that demands fiscal prayers, not mourning.
Pain?
I hold it like a cigarette
extinguished in my palm.
It burns,but at least, I know I’m still alive,
I’m still burning
in the vice of shadows.
Today’s poet doesn’t ask for glory.
No stage, applause or crown
Just a phone on silent mode
and a corner of a wall
where I carve verses uncensored by hunger,
where I can pray
without being asked for coins in the tray when going to church.
Here I write.
Here I cry.
No one charges me taxes.
Here I scream,
and no traffic light hears me.
Poetry no longer changes the world.
Poetry is me,
when I can’t bear to be myself anymore.
If tomorrow the sky deletes me from its contacts,
leave me a corner of paper,
so I can return
if I ever feel like it.
Or maybe I’ll remain
just an unopened notification,
a verse you never had the chance to read.
I’m still learning to be calm,
like a simmering light
that still bites into the shadows.
And if I never learned to be light,
only a rag burning
in a forgotten lamp at night,
forgive me, O sky.
But I did burn.
And I didn’t die
without leaving a sign.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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