why a poet?
because a poet
hears the words
which sing the
purest harmonies
because a poet
paints their portraits
in pastels
of phrases
because a poet
dances their agonies
into leaps of faith
and pirouettes
of passion
because a poet
sees
the beauty
in the commonplace
and captures
the moment
in a snapshot
of ink and white
because a bloodless world
cuts itself
a thousand times

and the poet bleeds

.                  Bite tear and shred,
               This impulse in my head.

            For the pleasure i do destroy,
               Oh how my fingers bled.

Pretty little teeth, like knives in a pearly sheath, their vicious imprint lingers in the wounds upon my fingers.

                     Bite tear and shred,
                This impulse must be fed.

           No pain too feel it's in my head,
       No pain to feel nerve endings dead.

                    No way i can conceal,
                   my flesh that i do peel,

my Blood starts to congeal,
        my skin it slowly heals.
                        
                           Fresh for another day,
                                    to take my mind away.

When restless​ fingers lead lips astray, in this oddly calming, destructive foreplay.

Summer's warm currents retreat
the advancing brisk amber sunsets.

Submerging the world under
the reign of enduring starry nights.

The maples blush as Autumn whispers
the gentle lullaby of Winter's sweet breath.

Erasing Summer's memory with a crimson brush
preparing the golden landscape's long frigid rest.

~~~