i wish knowing you're not worth the words is enough to make me stop writing about you.

but apparently, it's not.

I remember you well,
your crooked spine,
and heart of a widow
that’s turned so black.

What’s made you bitter?
I wonder, now.
You look back on years, but
you can’t go back.

Have you forgotten
my face by now,
even as I walk by you
in a roaring crowd?

Does it ever occur that
you could be wrong?
For me, the guilt I have,
it screams so loud.

There’re two kinds of people:
one kind forgives.
But that isn’t you, no,
and you don’t forget.

As I lean over to whisper,
“you’ve dropped your crown,”
your look is so telling -
you remember, yet.

smoking a joint full of crystal cookies
I think of the poets tonight
everyone of them
climbing on each other
reaching for the top of the bucket
trying to escape
and everyone pulling
each other down
with no chance of reaching the top.
I look down into the pail
full of doleful glum
and it dampens my spirits
I want to pick it up
and dump it out
onto the sand.
I want to pull the thorn from their side
I want to release them from their anguish
but no one ever helped a fish
by pulling it out of the river
to save it from drowning
and I fear for their psychoanalysis
being swept away by the tides
of forgetfulness
I fear for without their sorrow
their creativity will be carried
off into a soulless sea,
lost and gone forever.

Poets are an interesting bunch,
All half mad at least.
I say I love poetry
When the words tear me up inside,
Stealing every breath.
I say it soothes me
Even as it burns me,
Begging to be released.
"We all know we're crazy," I say.
"But we choose this life
Because we can't live without the fever dreams
Or syllables controlling our every move."
The non-poet stares at me,
Uncomprehending.

The world doesn't need another sad, sullen poet
-But it still made me

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This is the artifice of Poets
Such artifice.

A magician's trick
To make words fly

So those who relate
Are elated by the What-If's

To see poetry
As a great gift to the eye

To make every line
The edge of a cliff

A precipice
For the reader's heart and mind.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This is the drama of poetry,
Such drama.

The Truths being told
All dazzled up in lies

To make an honest rhymer
Seem like a king in waiting

A artist of language
And a dramatist of lines

The empty screen a waiting stage
Every page a hungry table

Where the poet serves
A feast for starving eyes

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This is the history of Poets,
Such history.

The mystery
Of entering men's minds

And by the use
Of some old clichéd sophistry

Turn ink into
The precious gold of rhyme

Which down the ages
Has practised such alchemy

THAT desirable occupation
Worthy of all our time.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>