Poem by Amy G. Dala

A poem

They say you can’t be in two places at once … 

but, here I am, in this poem, narrating, coexisting with my half-witted, half-hung-over self, writing in half-baked-prose, wholly-cogitating over the clogged sink, woefully ruminating, thick as I think, imitating a mind, and lips, moving in sync,

Im alright, mate.

Liar. This is your internal voice, manifested, who’re you tryna kid, kid?

You’re barely opening up, from the eyelid.
You’re not some battle hardened warrior.
You’ll let down your guard like a lead balloon.

Dropping armour, and shield, you’re jelly in a pot. Jiggle jiggle.

I could tear you in half with a spoon.

Why we don’t rhyme much anymore,
no one knows,

when did we forfeit rhyme,
for half-price prose?
It’s a giveaway.

Im only human.

Did I just giveaway the plot?
Or, did I lose it …

I can be anything here;
wise, beyond my facility,
inflating my own sense of ability
- I do fear.

Can you confirm my sanity?
Im stuck in a feedback loop,
attending to the fermentation,
of novel ideas,
confirming the bias,
refracting the spheres,
bending the sourdough,
oozing out of my ears,
into little wreathes,
ready for the oven.

The words have risen, they must be removed before they burn.
Yet, they must crisp a little longer, if I wish to learn …

eat up, masticate, and churn …

grow and develop.

Oh, the irony, finally, I see.
Open me up, an autopsy.
With me, alive,
screaming and flailing,
all the little gingerbread men,
come marching out,
entrails trailing,
spilling truths, from within,
fresh off the pan

… can’t stand the heat of the kitchen.

It’s near time to sling my backpack,
and, up and fly to Japan. Non-fiction.

Sayonara, blood-suckers.

Running through neon streets
with my stomach stitched,
laughing deliriously.

How did I get here?

Now, let’s see …
let’s see you try and live,
without the host.
No more intrusive thoughts,
just butter and toast. Staples.

They love robots.

These emotions do not compute.
Troubleshoot. Troubleshoot. Trouble, shoot, shoot, shoot.
We need to hit reset - reboot.


Wake up.
One sleep hasn’t cured you.

Who’re you kidding, kid,
you just can’t shake em’, can you?
Stress, anxiety, fear, nervous energies,
self deprecating tendencies,
all crazy, up in yo headspace
- Robin your content,
and, his band of merry fuckin’ men
following behind,
singing until they’re blue in the face.


© Darius the Mate 10-01-2022

Written for Shay’s Word Garden.

Wordplay Pathway https://nicecissist.blog

16 thoughts on “Poem by Amy G. Dala

  1. that is an awesome title, and a great argument between two minds, but how do break a stalemate? i guess that would be the “i” of the two combined. in 13 ways of looking at a blackbird, wallace stevens said “i was of three minds, like a tree, in which there are three blackbirds” great poem darius, lots of good sounds too, enjoyed this very much

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I just read ‘13 ways of looking at a blackbirds” – I wasn’t familiar, though, now I am – it reminds me of a series of Haikus, each individual. My mind must be full of blackbirds.

      Thank you for the comment, Phillip.


  2. Amy G. Dala, ahhh the memories, but she’s so emotional. Very clever, once i got that, about mid-poem, I started grinning. There is a reason why button-down minds don’t come up with poetry, or if they do, it dull—it takes a little dose of madness to do this. I was just watching YT videos last night about my man Federico Garcia Lorca. I was saddened to learn that he suffered from serious emotional issues all his life, but oh my, the dazzling, amazing poems!

    The spoon and the vivisection here were gory and gross but also my favorite parts. That’s a little alarming. They say that the thing a person hides is the source of their strength. True? I’m not sure, but this makes me wonder anew.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. “They say that the thing a person hides is the source of their strength. True?”

      I’m not sure, either. Maybe, an element of propulsion … maybe, the greatest of weaknesses, are harnessed into the greatest of strengths. The wildness of anxiety, focused through the pen – perhaps it’s true. I just wish we got to choose our madnesses. I may have chosen differently. One can wish.
      Wishing into the wind is one thing – though I feel much more useful writing poems.

      Thank you, Shay. I particular enjoyed the words this week. I could have incorporated more, for the love of them, though not out of necessity. Perhaps I’ll write a second poem.

      Liked by 2 people

  3. your word play is clever, intoxicating and a joy to read. Almost like chasing butterflies as I read along the lines – so much to like
    “you’re jelly in a pot. Jiggle jiggle.

    I could tear you in half with a spoon. “

    Liked by 1 person

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