Maybe it's another poem... early stages... needs work and reformatting (thanks to blogger). But writing is helping me get by... Any title suggestions? I think this one is a little cheesy sounding...

I am a tree by this tempestuous sea

branches weep over—water
leeches on leaves, sea under
toes. Reflections grow cold, while
my neck sorely poses
away: sucking in doesn’t make any harder—any
simpler to look at the face that
carved up this wan breast.

She’s eaten the figs that
fell from my fingers; but
spoon-spots of moon on the water—
don’t count. Will
never fathom—with lungs buried in chest: boats
heave and capsize. I should
lend them my branches—
lest they all spill out.

When I thought I was sturdy, could carry the weight,
it snapped—
at the elbow. Fell, me
fallen through. Now, I'm swallowing

down shivers and waves. Splinters from bones
and rafts and high water. With disease
in these veins, I couldn’t hold on:
they were just figs of meaning,
shelling off my own bark.

So have
—all known loneliness,
been shaken at root, then
stilled by notions—longings
to meet at the banks, mend untidy scars.

Who will know me with no fruit?



It's a very self-centered poem, which I think is important to note... The speaker's failure and focus on victimization doesn't really help produce anything worthwhile in the end... Guess it's not healthy to be in states like this... Who knew...