I could run away or stay Living like a moth to a flame. I always try to chase the light, But the light has burned out. And these days I'm stuck in old ways, So where a light used to be Is where I sit patiently In the dark Hoping for a flickering flame.
You're becoming unhinged. Searching for answers in the words That were so scrambled they almost came with toast. It's okay. I'll protect this home of ours While you try to rebuild it. I'll take the double edged jade sword That has become your nature, And bury it far away Next to the skeletons, Under the dark corners, And just behind your eyes.
My Grandma told me, About a poem she wrote About a sunset on the Key West shore Painting poems to be Ethereal and bright, Full of beauty and Delight. Which they are, But
Here I sit, Writing poems About how much I'd love To die. Or writing poems About what's inside my mind Which seems to be Terrible, Dark and Telling me to be At the end of bights. Lonely nights I've spent Spend days travelling down My brain to my pencil, Tracing backwards Symbols to conform to. Writing these words Like child's play to Nightmares.
So tell me, What's the real meaning of poet? Sunsets or an experience Making poetry Or poesy your only catharsis? I think or hope it's both But either way Like most folks, I still don't know what the **** I'm talking about.