Take the pain of being yourself
and box it up.  Take the pain
of being in love with another
and box it up, put them on 
the same shelf in the same
dark room.  Take the anger
at all the maddening others
and box it up then box that box
again and again put it in the same
dark room. Did you notice something
about how a poor person prayed
for the rich? Did it sicken you? Box
box box it up and put put put it
in the back of the stifling room. Box
the fear and the residual hatred,
box the last words of any martyr, box 
the clean air up in a dirty old box
and box it all into the suffocating heat
of the room where the boxes, 
all the boxes, are starting to glow
from within as if the contents, finally,
have stopped smoldering
and are starting to blaze. Pretty soon
they’ll set everything on fire
and there’s not a drop of water
within reach, which somehow
you find comforting and somehow
seems like a release and somehow
seems like what you expected
from the first time you shoved a box
in there, turned your back, and tried
to pretend it wasn’t there as you closed the door
with a smile for the onlookers, saying
well, that’s that.


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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