Not Intended But Where I Ended

If you had told me twenty years ago
I would be a writer of poetry
I would have glassed you in the face
used the shards to scratch  
a stick figure family into the dry wall
explain that
that’s as much art as you’ll get from me
I can’t draw conclusions
can’t fold sentences into
absurdity and  
thou art, about to get fucked up
 
my artistic streak  
was in cracking bones
tearing into leather with rapid fire combinations
breaking down sparring partners
being able to hit so hard
I could injure ribs through body armour
injure limbs through kick shields
it was the mess of a woman
and her friends
because they brag to each other
about your size
your prowess
that thing you do with your tongue
 
I wasn’t tied down
I ran through them all
till I was a whisper in the back room
a trophy fuck
until my name was spoken in reverence
and women would walk past and grab my ass for luck
 
then later they would cling to my biceps  
my shoulders
scream to god
 
the alley cat always gets the  
sweetest meat
 
but it was hollow
the emptiest vessels make the most noise
everything I tried to fill it with
was more emptiness
pleasure is pleasure
it’s not grounded it holds no weight
 
I started writing about
cocks and cunts
because it was easy
fast
cheap thrills
 
after a time found I could describe a memory
touch a soul
with just
a
 
word
 
in
the right
place and placement  
 
found I could look inside
use tears and blood as ink
 
found that the sweetest pain of all
was in the sharing
 
found a place for parts of me
I thought were dead