You're mad like a poet
Screaming at the world
At the top of your
Coal powdered lungs and
Mouth painted blood red
As if trying to yell
"Listen! Listen up!
Listen to me now!
I've got many things
To say! Many things!"
But they ignore you
And your late sleepless
Nights on a desk, ink
Dragging down your arm,
Spread up on papers
And decorating
The room in crumpled
Piles of lined papers,
Are wasted away.
It's sad, little friend,
And I wish you best
And not the poets fate,
And the cancerous days
That come with such things.
Live a life that's not
The poets and scream like
Anybody else
Just not him, not her.