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.
January 27th, 2016 at 2:32 am
Mais oui!
January 25th, 2016 at 4:11 pm
Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin matched in value and depth. Those that live on the surface live with muted colors, unheard music, hearts unbroken but never bursting with joy.