Self-Sapping Sapper

Poem Exploring Cleansing

In this daily daze and lackadaisical greed, you’ll find a poignant yet wonderful mead, its properties a tingeing yet nocuous melody, those grains that cultivate your problems endlessly.

It gives one a false sense of knowledge and grit, of any excuse to degrade some wit. Of it no simple or vacuous treat, of feigned clamor in such a dubious defeat.

Often we toil and boorishly twirl, we create of our habits densely packed pearls. In such pressure is born an obscure concoction, there we extract a pleasurable decoction: essence of ignored choices forgotten, a self-serving prattle of your faults begotten.

Red-faced anger, such pleasure in its fervor, you’ll write torn verse with an appetizing fever. Lyrically it goes as you rip your paper, as you pen your fuse, a sabotaging caper. Of a drunken and tormented fiddling trapper, of you a self-made self-sapping sapper.

Though one might choose to write of their stories, perhaps their memories and past glories, you’ll write what comes in this melded territory, you write your grave in a viscid melancholy. There are moments to say what needs to be said and those others to sit and reflect instead, but today we don’t care, we’ll write what comes, we can’t be bothered when in time we’ll be anon.

Thanks for reading! Ilija Begic

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