‘Destructive’
that’s how a teacher once
described me.
Did I prove her right?
Probably.
At the root of things, if I were
deconstructed,
what would be my
description?
Or if I were
dead,
what would be my epitaph’s
depiction?
Drinker, drowning
not
Dante’s divine, but his
damned.
Childhood fears of
disowning.
Fever
dreams of
defeat.
Dithering,
do I say sorry?
Pause,
decide against centering yourself for once, then
delete.
Don’t forget; keep
doing it
day by
day.
Detestable dickhead deserving diminishing.
Disabled, divergent, dissenting, differing.
Decisively dichotomic in my
duality.
D?
A poem centred around
D?
Don’t you think that makes you a
diva? Dramatic? Despairing?
The
drunkard’s disease has
drained me
of all the good parts.
I feel like I live my life at
dusk.
Given the chance to sum it up,
how would you say it?
To borrow from another poet:
half
dust,
half
David.
