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.