sorghum

these voices

in my head

they scream at me-they want me

to be less controlling

        less intimidating

they beg

like three little bitches.

i mock god

just to rile them,

play hardcore music

when they sleep.

these voices

in my head-

feels like sand snuck in

after almost drowning

at Jersey Beach.

i listen to the mystery of the poets.

maybe wisdom

found face down equal to

imaginary fetus

born inside a brain still growing.

these words

are not poetry-

more like a discharge

of unholy breach.

these voices

in my head, i hate them-

try to quiet them

beneath pillow,

yet

they

find

holes

to breathe

while i write about

hard-tempered madness

in a house of muse,

surrounded by slow-filled

sorghum buckets.