All great minds have been called insane .. Superfluous indulgence in petty day's gossip is not where human consciousness is supposed to find it's grave_Indeed ! They know not .. the beauty of the other side ..A place not easily accessible ... A bridge not visible.. The ladder too steep .. Or maybe hidden in plain sight !They see not ! They care not ! They just continue in their petty herds ! Of everyday groceries ! And predictable backbitchings ! How shallow, how very shallow !
Written to depict my dislike for the flawed existence we live everyday.
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 hell I'm talking about.