I cannot tell you the things I feel; I’ve ignored them so willfully it hurts and

To free them now would mark the scar

Of a river moved underground and erupted in the wet season, after being

Forgotten.

How could you forget it?

You only turned two blind eyes but could not drive it from your mind

Because with unease, you know:

Every outlawed mineral runs in this white water.

How did you forget how to feel?

 How on this Earth did you manage to kill a splendid seventh sense, and

Place the blame, frame, some imagined stoicism.

You feel no shame, no shame at all because of course you feel nothing. At all.

Oh you, myself, no river forgets how to run, and so you are weaker than the wet.

Oh cry me a river and repent! You wish you would not refuse, but standing in front of me you freeze and

Saltwater contracts stage fright.

For all these flaws, I have one superpower - the mirthless enabler of my honesty’s nasty habit.

Oh, but all my friends will tell you that I: can make a joke from anything

And I: don’t take myself too seriously.

Keep the mood light; don’t complicate a good time.

Will my emotions all burst as I bottle them up? It’s a mere mistruth, a common misconception.

I will barter more bottles, and I’ll find them in a shallow riverbed on a long walk

Through the woods.

My dear bottles fill up windowsills, catching more than light,

Pridefully on display, all kinds: bright green and red glass in an ornate and tall holding cell, a gilded cage.

Every so often I’ll dust and polish them clean, held at arm’s length, cork tight in place.

Here now is this poem, born of thin paper and black ink, oh nothing more. Nothing less!

What more will you ask, what more can be demanded from me, myself, and I?

It’s no grand rush of emotion, no heart nor soul to pour into these words;

That well has run dry long ago, or maybe this river runs now under stone.