I am not the master of my writing

-
my writing masters me,
seizing me when the seizure is a sure thing,
it dictates to its enslaved scribe
what it desires this utensil to reveal and expel -
the contraries
who having battled to a ****** draw leaves the battlefield trembling with indecent indecision; the optimal conditions for its macrobiotic invasion of my brain stem;

the she-muse offers me two choices:
she wants a poem writ forthwith
on the lyrical expression
of depression and refusal is
non optional

so I fantasize escape and that becomes
her property as well;
evidence against me to be used at my trials,
the one where there is no statue of liberty
from the limitations of prior bad acts;

I offer the she-muse two choices:

give me a cabin with WiFi
and self-enforcement of solitary confinement and
tie me up with the rope remainders of broken bonds,

bonds that tied me up worse
when they were broken
and the peaceful withering
that won’t disrupt disturb nobody
from a distance

my other choice is to bury me
forthwith next to my parents
and shutter my constant tearing eyes which are drop-resistant

muse says that’s no choice
I own your voice stilled or not,
will bill your soul’s account for
denial of poetic services

weep; i don’t want the noises that curse this troubled
bodyship don’t want recollections good or bad

the muse-***** cackles with insanity of delight
for she accepts this writ as partial payment
on her commission, whispers I love your
lyrical expressions of depression
that ****** recognition algorithms
alert me that seizing time is nigh

there is no on/off switch for one like you:
father son and holy ghost

Have you ever felt like
all you wanted to do was listen to music
yet your head hurt

and the world would spin and spin
but all you wanted was to stand still

and the sun didn't shine on a day where you wanted to be blinded

And the branch didn't break
when you tried to die from the aches of life
so you had
had to let go.

Have you ever felt like the chocolate is never just right.
Either too milky or too strong, never balanced out.
Have you ever forgot to feed your pet,
remembered, and still layed in bed?

Because I, I,
understand it all
but life just isnt easy like that
for life
doesn't just give you the lemons,
it makes you find them
and work to
make
the lemonade.

Lyrical—
like poetry in motion.
Rhythmic—
like the motion of the ocean.

Fluid like a breeze
passin with great ease,
Movin through the branches
Dancin through the leaves.

Flowin like my mind,
Going over time,
puffin on some trees,
Like truth I’m bout to find.
Stayin on my grind.
Leavin fear behind.
Blastin through the cosmos
like my stars are all aligned.
Quantum physics redefined,
The beauty of being kind.
Travel thru dimensions,
A universal mastermind.

This illusory time
alluding to retain us-
Yet the conscious mind
refuses to contain us.

Recondition of the masses,
Before time comes to pass us.
before it’s all too late
Start movement to change
Let’s wake each other up
Let’s take control over our fate.

Again and again,
Love it till it’s over,
live it till it’s fin.


A reflection of your life spent,
a vessel that you’ve been lent,
so go forth with intent.

Gratitude for all worth
Know you are important
Every breath, and all birth.

Your light that resides true
In the poetry inside you.
The vibration stays fluid,
Like the love that is intuit.
You’re a medium— a conduit.
Yeah, now you’re catchin onto it.

High frequency—-
Waves of love
True vibrancy,
Bonds—-
you are free of.

Faith in self,
No need for vaunt,
lovin what you have
not havin what you want.
Give it all you got
till you got nothin left,
Then take the deepest breath
And give it once again.

Is it not a wonder
how your emotions
stitch these words together
Like a well knitted sweater

Is it not inspiring
how your sadness
strengthens the ones reading
But you're still bleeding

Poets should fall
in love with
poets
Leave the rest to
appreciate their
poems

Is it not beautiful
the way your mind
crafts and creates imagery
Marrying imagination and reality

Is it not intelligent
the way your words
coalesce together
Your journals, chests of treasure

Poets should fall
in love with
poets
Leave the rest to
appreciate their
poems

Is it not charming
that you aim to
be different than the indifferent
societies past and present

Is it not valorous
that you strive to
rebel with just a pen
Deep within the lion's den

Your emotions deep, your heart is true
They read your writing but fail to read you

I reaffirm,
Poets should fall
in love with
poets
And
Leave the rest to
appreciate their
poems

It has been said to me
That poetry
Is but Words
And Gobbledygook.

So how can I explain
What poetry is?
It’s something intangible,
An atmosphere,
A spiritual thing.

Poetry is essence,
Touching the soul.
A kind of Magic,
As Queen used to sing.

It makes you tingle
And shudder
And glow.

Much more than a shopping list
Or legal decree
Poetry flows from the heart,
Lyrically lancing
Through space and time
To create a universe
Of bountiful beauty,
Where even the ugliest monstrosity
Is transformed
Into heaven
On Earth.

It saddens me to think
That seemingly soulless people
Miss out
On this.

So all I can do
Is keep on singing,
Carry on writing
In the enduring hope
That one day
They will see the light.

Paul Butters

© PB 2\1\2019.

little people
small people
people full of scars

riddle me people
why the feeble mind ?

why bother time
with your reaper's heart ?

cry with me,
when I read you your tar,

filthy hands, guilty stars
many men, any man-
but yet i see no flowers

nobody's awake at this hour

and i've slowly spent all my
will to live,
i repent the kind man who
sought this thrill to give,

frozen smile, stuck by the clock;
locked in place and stiff,
opened files, an omen dies,
and he spoke with a slight lisp

munching on something
light and crisp,
searching for nothing,
nothing's as vile and sick;

reaching for that one thing-
that gun thing, them rocks and sticks,

how about that sun thing ?
what would a son think,
when he's burdened by the mist,
pretending to be human enough
to pretend that he's amiss,

amidst the chaos and the risks,
forgotten names and letters,
from faces that he don't miss-

and they think it gets better
the more you drink and fish,
so ink yourself a moon, and
buy yourself a letter-
so, you can sin, sing and wish

for some time alone.