My words and my poems Are no more than explanations And embellishments My means of expression For my life is my "art" It's what I am and what I write It's why I need to write To make sense of the things I've seen and done And there are times when I think I've done far too much Then, in deep contemplation I realise I could have done more And that kind of inner debate And discussion with myself Are a large part of my life Which becomes my version Of something like "art"
It was a morning of tranquility And it was your vile tongue that had this abruptly undone The birds were singing and inside my head your words were ringing Intensity spiralling As you continue to chastise you really only manage to ostracise Your red mist has descended and the white flag truce has ended A battle commences as my back is turned to absorb your barrage of selfish subscriptions Just another bright day of perpetual predictions