I'm a part time poet
though you likely wouldn't know it
I get in touch on the fly
just a glitch in my eye
between the patchwork smile
the catalog file
of a mind that finds an opening
once in a while

I could never do it full time you see
it would undoubtedly be the end of me
full time negativity
twenty four seven reality
round the clock visions of the truth cannot be
I'd sink too low to view the light
into my well of darkest night
where truth and clarity
reside
where truth and clarity
reside
I'd drink and smoke in my little cell
like Poe or Plath it would not end well
and unlike them there's nothing when I'm done
but words remembered by few
or none
so I'll keep smiling and read my lines
and dance among the thornless vines
and when I get that glitch
I'll play
in the well of truth and dreams
and stay
for just a moment
then I'll be back
before the dark gray turns to black

a romance stronger than *** egos not
ever known just a sweet touch of afar and
birthdays and christmases
keeping in touch through the
long distance fog of so many years
she makes cakes I taste
by her descriptions
only
we fuss
like we live together
and we have never touched
I told her my secrets she absorbed
and I held her through some dark times
in absentia just my voice
she cried on my virtual shoulder
I loved her so many times
in my imagination
we have made love so many times
by words
that's my muse

A poem, for some, is not fuelled by a single thought.
It is not a sudden emotion that yearns to be converted instantly to wordful waste, it is gradual.
It is a volcano, that builds up until eruption is inevitable.
Poetry, for some, is layer upon layer of thought and feeling and concept, hardened over time,
For some, it is hours of pain and joy and the works of the indescribable puppeteer so desperately fused
into metaphor.
Poetry, for some, lifelong.

But for others, poetry is pure spontaneity. It is unpredictable and unlook-back-able.
For others, poetry is their act of carpe diem, their tip-toe into daily bravery and recklessness.
Their mark that is not a scar.
Poetry, for others, is a single moment picked out of an infinity of them and pulled apart, or pulled together.
It is wonderful and hideous, it is skydiving and socialising and swimming with the sharks.
It is instant, it is adrenaline.
For others, poetry is lack of thought or understanding, just the swift transition from neuron to ink or binary.
Poetry, for others, is short lived.