A Poet's Notebook: The Curse

The Curse

I was born

Not with a silver spoon in my mouth

Nor with golden rings around my fingers.

I was born with a curse.

A curse that annihilates men,

That causes one to take a detour,

That either mends or breaks things.

To utter a word is to prepare for trouble.

To scribble a letter is to get ready for war.

Wasting saliva gets me nowhere.

An inkblot does nothing better.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i was born with a curse that can kill more men than the atomic bomb. Written in 2007. Like some of my poems, this one made so much sense back then, too. Right now it still does, but it does make me cringe, too.