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i am not a poet by Kole Kealey
i am not a poet Kole Kealey i touched rock bottom before i ever touched apen, so do not call me a poet
call me your mother tongue,
burning the back of your throat making yourblood boil, a taste you can’t quite name butrhymes with copper and death, with misery anddespair, the taste of childhood meant forsomeone else, one you didn’t experience butthrough the rose-colored lenses of your brokenheart tethered to a string being dragged throughbusted up concrete, through fragments of brokenglass and shattered dreams
call me salvation
on a Sunday morning when your words nolonger have meaning and your bones ache withdesire for the mundane, when your blood runsblue with the lack of oxygen left pumpingthrough your body, when your tears run dry andyour legs stop moving forward, face down in thedirt you dug up for your grave
call me down on your knees
begging for mercy from your god while shelaughs in your face saying “i told you so,” saying,“fix your own damn mess because i gave you thechallenge but i did not tell you to fight,” saying,“fuck you and your salvation, you deservenothing but rock bottom, babe, fight and clawyour way back,” saying, “blood, sweat, and tearsmean nothing if you aren’t on bloody mud-soaked knees begging for my mercy”
call me the truth
that runs down your thighs when your razorscars bust open with hatred and the desire tomeet Daughter Death, the knife blade stuck inyour ribs, the broken handles of lust and love ofAphrodite’s weapon, rising from the ashes ofLilith, from the darkness of Persephone, and theblood stains on your white satin sheets
call me shame
on the bathroom floor of a bar leaning over atoilet because you thought that sixth drink wasenough to lessen the pain of not having enoughwords to describe the heartache you feel in yourbones, no matter how hard you try to put aname to it
call me resurrection
on a Monday morning when you find the wordsto give that voice in your head a goddamnedname different from the demons in your soul,different from shame, disgust, anger, or fear,different from the names you hear in the mirror,different from the horror you see in thereflection on your mother’s face
call me your mother tongue, salvation, truth, orshame, call me mercy or even resurrection if youmust, but do not call me a poet. i am simply thepain you brought to life with your still-beatingheart
call me your mother tongue,
burning the back of your throat making yourblood boil, a taste you can’t quite name butrhymes with copper and death, with misery anddespair, the taste of childhood meant forsomeone else, one you didn’t experience butthrough the rose-colored lenses of your brokenheart tethered to a string being dragged throughbusted up concrete, through fragments of brokenglass and shattered dreams
call me salvation
on a Sunday morning when your words nolonger have meaning and your bones ache withdesire for the mundane, when your blood runsblue with the lack of oxygen left pumpingthrough your body, when your tears run dry andyour legs stop moving forward, face down in thedirt you dug up for your grave
call me down on your knees
begging for mercy from your god while shelaughs in your face saying “i told you so,” saying,“fix your own damn mess because i gave you thechallenge but i did not tell you to fight,” saying,“fuck you and your salvation, you deservenothing but rock bottom, babe, fight and clawyour way back,” saying, “blood, sweat, and tearsmean nothing if you aren’t on bloody mud-soaked knees begging for my mercy”
call me the truth
that runs down your thighs when your razorscars bust open with hatred and the desire tomeet Daughter Death, the knife blade stuck inyour ribs, the broken handles of lust and love ofAphrodite’s weapon, rising from the ashes ofLilith, from the darkness of Persephone, and theblood stains on your white satin sheets
call me shame
on the bathroom floor of a bar leaning over atoilet because you thought that sixth drink wasenough to lessen the pain of not having enoughwords to describe the heartache you feel in yourbones, no matter how hard you try to put aname to it
call me resurrection
on a Monday morning when you find the wordsto give that voice in your head a goddamnedname different from the demons in your soul,different from shame, disgust, anger, or fear,different from the names you hear in the mirror,different from the horror you see in thereflection on your mother’s face
call me your mother tongue, salvation, truth, orshame, call me mercy or even resurrection if youmust, but do not call me a poet. i am simply thepain you brought to life with your still-beatingheart
More from Kole Kealey ↓
- @kolekealeypoetry on Instagram
- Her book Sunflowers Sting: Where Poetry Meets Boudoir will be out soon.
Mentioned in this episode:
Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️
🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️
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By Maggie Deversi am not a poet Kole Kealey i touched rock bottom before i ever touched apen, so do not call me a poet
call me your mother tongue,
burning the back of your throat making yourblood boil, a taste you can’t quite name butrhymes with copper and death, with misery anddespair, the taste of childhood meant forsomeone else, one you didn’t experience butthrough the rose-colored lenses of your brokenheart tethered to a string being dragged throughbusted up concrete, through fragments of brokenglass and shattered dreams
call me salvation
on a Sunday morning when your words nolonger have meaning and your bones ache withdesire for the mundane, when your blood runsblue with the lack of oxygen left pumpingthrough your body, when your tears run dry andyour legs stop moving forward, face down in thedirt you dug up for your grave
call me down on your knees
begging for mercy from your god while shelaughs in your face saying “i told you so,” saying,“fix your own damn mess because i gave you thechallenge but i did not tell you to fight,” saying,“fuck you and your salvation, you deservenothing but rock bottom, babe, fight and clawyour way back,” saying, “blood, sweat, and tearsmean nothing if you aren’t on bloody mud-soaked knees begging for my mercy”
call me the truth
that runs down your thighs when your razorscars bust open with hatred and the desire tomeet Daughter Death, the knife blade stuck inyour ribs, the broken handles of lust and love ofAphrodite’s weapon, rising from the ashes ofLilith, from the darkness of Persephone, and theblood stains on your white satin sheets
call me shame
on the bathroom floor of a bar leaning over atoilet because you thought that sixth drink wasenough to lessen the pain of not having enoughwords to describe the heartache you feel in yourbones, no matter how hard you try to put aname to it
call me resurrection
on a Monday morning when you find the wordsto give that voice in your head a goddamnedname different from the demons in your soul,different from shame, disgust, anger, or fear,different from the names you hear in the mirror,different from the horror you see in thereflection on your mother’s face
call me your mother tongue, salvation, truth, orshame, call me mercy or even resurrection if youmust, but do not call me a poet. i am simply thepain you brought to life with your still-beatingheart
call me your mother tongue,
burning the back of your throat making yourblood boil, a taste you can’t quite name butrhymes with copper and death, with misery anddespair, the taste of childhood meant forsomeone else, one you didn’t experience butthrough the rose-colored lenses of your brokenheart tethered to a string being dragged throughbusted up concrete, through fragments of brokenglass and shattered dreams
call me salvation
on a Sunday morning when your words nolonger have meaning and your bones ache withdesire for the mundane, when your blood runsblue with the lack of oxygen left pumpingthrough your body, when your tears run dry andyour legs stop moving forward, face down in thedirt you dug up for your grave
call me down on your knees
begging for mercy from your god while shelaughs in your face saying “i told you so,” saying,“fix your own damn mess because i gave you thechallenge but i did not tell you to fight,” saying,“fuck you and your salvation, you deservenothing but rock bottom, babe, fight and clawyour way back,” saying, “blood, sweat, and tearsmean nothing if you aren’t on bloody mud-soaked knees begging for my mercy”
call me the truth
that runs down your thighs when your razorscars bust open with hatred and the desire tomeet Daughter Death, the knife blade stuck inyour ribs, the broken handles of lust and love ofAphrodite’s weapon, rising from the ashes ofLilith, from the darkness of Persephone, and theblood stains on your white satin sheets
call me shame
on the bathroom floor of a bar leaning over atoilet because you thought that sixth drink wasenough to lessen the pain of not having enoughwords to describe the heartache you feel in yourbones, no matter how hard you try to put aname to it
call me resurrection
on a Monday morning when you find the wordsto give that voice in your head a goddamnedname different from the demons in your soul,different from shame, disgust, anger, or fear,different from the names you hear in the mirror,different from the horror you see in thereflection on your mother’s face
call me your mother tongue, salvation, truth, orshame, call me mercy or even resurrection if youmust, but do not call me a poet. i am simply thepain you brought to life with your still-beatingheart
More from Kole Kealey ↓
- @kolekealeypoetry on Instagram
- Her book Sunflowers Sting: Where Poetry Meets Boudoir will be out soon.
Mentioned in this episode:
Join the mailing list to be the first to know when OPO submissions open ⬇️
🖋️ Read My Newsletter: Free Flow 🖋️