A poet’s curse
Is writing about love,
Sensing the darkness it expresses,
The beauty it reveals; understanding
It’s a complicated feeling,
Misunderstood, difficult, full of
Words, thoughts, and misconceptions.
Most never see, nor value
Its true nature, yet we recognize
Its inner beauty within the
Gloom, always craving it
Never seeing it.
Pure genius never questions
Nor has to explain why, but is
Driven to excellence on a
Spiritual, emotional, and a
Hypothetical high.
On a daily basis they ride the
Waves propelling pure genius
From the mundane, which
Enslaves the uncreative, and
Drives them insane.
When all is said and done it is
Pure genius which remains.
When I was a little girl,
I dreamed of being a poet.
As an adult woman
I learned that to write
the most beautiful
of love poems I
had to let my heart
break into a thousand pieces.
Perhaps it is true, that the poet
carries a spell to pen,
the beauty of love, but
never is able to attain it.
Your cigarette
Smelled like the late 1970’s
Lucky Strikes or Camel unfiltered
At the bar at the beachfront
A certain kind of haze
My eyes fell on you
Talking Heads on the jukebox
“Life During Wartime” played
Sweat, glaze, punk freedom
Defiance and glory
Our late youth unfolding
Into something nevermore
The number of days
I was awakened from
A peaceful slumber by
The roaring din of
An angry malcontent out
To satisfy only his own
Needs at the expense
Of others’ well-being,
Unable to care for
Anyone, including himself.
A blustering cacophony of
Insecurity,
Barely contained rage,
Immeasurable
Unhappiness,
Typical suburbia.
We are in a revolving door
Sensing what we are
But trying to rotate
In the direction
Of what
We want to be
We reject acceptance
The relative prosperity
With wishes
To be something else
To be
More than who we are
To find the success
Our culture defines
For us
As true and good
It is a misery
To wear clown shoes
We can never fit
To waste our time
Jumping
As high as we can
But never reaching
That impossible dream
But even
If we grasp it
Pulling ourselves
To that level
The pretty bow
Covers a box
Of empty promises
And another ladder
With missing rungs
Rain scatter, smell
of fruits and armies
of centipedes.
Somewhere a shaft of light
narrows into a path driven insanity. Shrivelled. Narrow alleys, lanes.
Everything. The narrowness disturbs me as the light penetrates into
houses that have no roofs.
Insanity. Me, you completely. The beggar there throws his bowl around, to catch quick response. No one responds. Only insanity wraps it’s warm shawl to cover truths.