I’m tired of writing sad poems.
I’m tired of reading them, too.
They force themselves through the crevices in my skull,
Through fontanelle and suture,
Take up residence in my brain,
One by one,
Their voices never rising above a whisper.
They multiply, colonizing my thoughts,
Snuffing out whatever is not theirs
With fingers, voices, breath,
Until I am theirs and they are mine,
And I can almost see their faces
And wipe the tears from their eyes.
I give my thoughts names.
I give them bones, and veins, and skin,
Trace their lives through scars and bruises,
Artifacts of old suffering that sit numb and distorted
And silent.
I never give them faces.
A patchwork block of static and color suffices.
Any god could make a homunculus,
A body filled with blood and clockwork,
Fold his arms and set it ticking,
But it takes an artist to make a face.
The first, purest form of expression,
Features that melt into each other,
Rough edges and crevices becoming
Perfect in their imperfection,
In their ability to sense and be sensed,
Love and be loved,
Hurt and be hurt.
My thoughts are too simple to have faces.
They’re not people, or poems, or important things like that.
Sad poets are always talking about the sky,
The clouds, their lovers’ hands,
Seashores, backyards, flowers, and marshes.
I don’t get out much.
Sorrow is my own head,
An empty room with one door
And no lock
And a thousand thousand sad poems
And sad faceless thoughts
Filing their way in,
Silently jostling the furniture,
Taking a seat,
Putting their feet up on the table.
They live here, after all.
By Samuel Oguntoyinbo.