Dec 2012
In the hopes of melodramatic expression,
We use overused combinations of words
To cook overcooked works of "completion",
But we never truly grasp
The hand of death,
Nor have we truly grasped
The possibilities this universe,
Or even beyond what this universe,
Provides.
We bounce the ball of clever word-play
On the playground of our understanding,
And though our playground's small,
We aggrandize it to be more;
In our heads, it reaches the shore,
And we play even in the fall
When we're not supposed to, sanding
down the ball with our bounces and our days.
Whether we wish for certain weather
To rain or shine on our heads,
Few will have that weather affect them
When they do not wish it so,
And they will be in the know.
They will hear the thunder through their phlegm
And they're the only ones to tell of it on their death bed.
They're the true poets, not us, whose spirits are still light as a feather.
We use overused combinations of words
To cook overcooked works of "completion",
But we never truly grasp
The hand of death,
Nor have we truly grasped
The possibilities this universe,
Or even beyond what this universe,
Provides.
We bounce the ball of clever word-play
On the playground of our understanding,
And though our playground's small,
We aggrandize it to be more;
In our heads, it reaches the shore,
And we play even in the fall
When we're not supposed to, sanding
down the ball with our bounces and our days.
Whether we wish for certain weather
To rain or shine on our heads,
Few will have that weather affect them
When they do not wish it so,
And they will be in the know.
They will hear the thunder through their phlegm
And they're the only ones to tell of it on their death bed.
They're the true poets, not us, whose spirits are still light as a feather.
This poem discusses how, though we write poetry, there are few who are great poets. I describe a great poet as being one who writes about the tragedies inflicting them, or who writes about knowledge that they can truly understand from their experience. There are some out there who claim to be a great poet simply because they write about their bad days, but I know that they secretly wish for those days simply so they can write about them. Great poets are not desperate for attention, but are instead simply venting their emotions.
