Being a poet,
Is not something,
I say,
Being a poet,
Is not something,
Something you turn off and on,
It is the melody of your heartsong.
I got friends that say to me,
“I write poetry,”
But the problem is,
Their truth ain’t reality.
In trying to rhyme,
Their words all die,
**** them,
Let the real poets rage.
Rage, Rage against that night,
Where the horrors of life hold tight,
As the ****** walk home,
In the burgeoning light.
And the knolls of the city,
Hide the bums in respite.
That’s poetry.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 3:47 PM UTC
Being a poet,
Is not something,
I say,
Being a poet,
Is not something,
Something you turn off and on,
It is the melody of your heartsong.
I got friends that say to me,
“I write poetry,”
But the problem is,
Their truth ain’t reality.
In trying to rhyme,
Their words all die,
**** them,
Let the real poets rage.
Rage, Rage against that night,
Where the horrors of life hold tight,
As the ****** walk home,
In the burgeoning light.
And the knolls of the city,
Hide the bums in respite.
That’s poetry.
