Prayer For Poets

Whosoever is born to
the pain of being a poet

let them sooner rather than later
be dissolved in their own tears, let them

ape their monstrous peers
until they fade into them,

let them be eaten by 
appetites for language

made duplex, false incentives,
a rogue belief in themselves

as beings of consequence.
Let those who call themselves poet

escape it however they can.
Let those who call themselves poet

live to fail their own tongues
and thus become,

if less complete, more
at peace if only in the short term;

if they are sometimes troubled
by the verses they have not written, 

let that pain be transitory as they sink into
the dull comfort of routine and simple life.

Let all of them find their way clear
to the moment of freedom

even if the only way out
is with gun, noose, or pills;

a quiet death in the arms
of a life unsullied by that calling

is the best
they can hope for.

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