A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

The natural history 
is that you become a member
before you realise your eligibility.
You start to write,
and yet you feel a certainty
that your words are inadequate
that your pain is insignificant
amidst the cries that haunt your sleep.
Either you are writing pretty words
and failing to feel your wounds
or you are languishing in despair
and no words hold a candle to the truth,
but either way
you are now a member
of the tortured poets department.

This poem was written on April 2 in response to Kristina Mahr’s TTPD poetry challenge.