The Poem You Expected Has Been Removed To Protect Its Innocence


I am writing this poem in the hopes that it will be a poem strong
enough to marry me to a destiny with dignity.

I am writing this poem because I have not read it yet, and I am in awe
of what it might one day become or make of me.

I am writing this poem as my “Do Over” my catch up, my way of shaking
a hand called OK, or maybe I am writing it as a bid for immortality.

I am writing this poem because you can’t or you won’t write me a letter
of kindness or send me a plane full of congratulatory roses.

I am writing this poem to you, that’s right to you, you know who you
are, maybe now you will believe I love you and need you completely.

I am writing this poem in my underwear, in front of a screen, early in the
morning that’s why it’s so fresh, dew eyed and new.


I wrote the poem as a premise of a promise, as a demonstration of an
unfailing intention to illuminate loneliness with the light of words.

I wrote the poem, it was me being me, that’s right – ya know how hard
it is to be you, now imagine being you being me writing this poem.

I wrote the poem while listening to city sirens, crafting each into melody’s
and recording them for you my future child of inquiry.

I wrote the poem very simply, using inexpensive ingredients, because you
know how costly and inexplicable words from a dictionary can be.

I wrote the poem anonymously, knowing from the start it was possibly a
forgettable thing, and as such not a poem to append a name too.

I wrote the poem in my underwear, and not naked, because I have no
wish for you to see the birthmark I am hiding on my inner thigh.


The poem, the one that got away, the one that I was trying to write is
making fun of the way this one finally turned out.

The poem, the one perfectly written, is going to be coy and refuse to
comment on this one which was artificially written.

The poem, the one you came here to read, cuz ya heard that Poetman is
awesome, is not here, preferring instead to be away on vacation.

The poem, the one and only one, is trying to uncrumple itself from a
waste basket, and make its case as more than an iteration.

The poem, the one this poem was suppose to be is looking for matches,
promising to come back later and burn my house down.

The poem, the one I wrote in my underwear, the one here that you are
reading is not a failure, nor is it my final attempt at salvation.

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5 responses to “The Poem You Expected Has Been Removed To Protect Its Innocence

  1. Poet Man, do you ever write prose?

  2. Sack Posset – I am not sure I understand the question…For I am not sure what it is that I write…But could I? Mmmmm, I am not sure.


  3. Understanding the power and potential of a poem is crucial to pulling “it” off. The poem can be all things or nothing… immortality or an early foot in the grave, a beautiful woman or an ugly birthmark, So many images and lines I enjoy and places to which I connect. I print out poems that particularly speak to me and tape them to the wall of my office, and I’ll do so with this one. Alas, Bryan Borland’s wall is no fancy journal, but here… have some acceptance.

    This sings of the ups and downs of the relationship with the poem, the expectations, the intimacy, the sweetness of success and the bitterness of failure in ways that are entertaining and unique. We cut our wrists and remember our lovers often in our underwear. We’re at our sexy, youthful prime in our underwear or we’re crawling on our bellies through mud and spit in our underwear. Almost naked, except for a few metaphors. And God forbid a few stains.

    Not to mention the emotional connections we make while writing poetry… we’re always thinking of someone… even if that someone is ourselves.

    Good, good, good.

  4. poeticgrin – What writer does not pine for a comment such as yours? I know of none.

    I can think of no better tribute to a poem then that it is lived with, and on your wall it shall do so willingly.

    …and how nice of you to have noticed the song of the poem, how it is something of a description of the ups and downs of the relationship of a writer to their poetry, vulnerable in underwear, or under the wear of their burdens…



  5. Nice. I like.

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