a poet's heart
is a thing of ink
pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears
narcissists filled with self loathing
composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft
our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible
defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity
our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss
couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die
running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron
like the sky
we are rewritten each day
yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are
pages
in a book we can barely read
remaking and trimming
editing ourselves
to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 11:07 PM UTC
a poet's heart
is a thing of ink
pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears
narcissists filled with self loathing
composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft
our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible
defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity
our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss
couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die
running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron
like the sky
we are rewritten each day
yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are
pages
in a book we can barely read
remaking and trimming
editing ourselves
to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
