•He Is Poetry•

I am a muse-less artist,
Painting pictures on the canvas of your eyelids,
See me, the things I see,
While I'm placing my soul on this silver platter,
My heart thrust into your hands,
Don't concern yourself with giving it back,
I placed it there for all the world to see, to digest it greedily,
Eat me, taste me,
Taste the words that have tattooed themselves on my skin,
Taste this blood, the ink of my mental cavity
As it seeps into the pen & brands the paper,
With whispers spilling out into the winds,
Carrying these strokes of genius somewhere far away..

This poetry, written by a so-called poet,
Labelled by those who don't know him,
He's a boy lost in these thoughts that berate him into stunned silence
That chain him & claim him as the crazy mess that he is,
He is me, & he is sorrow's slave,
To this boy, this poet no one seems to admire,
Everything is just a tangible illusion,
The world has become this poor child's stage,
So he acts alright, but his whole world is afire,
This boy, through his stanzas, refrains,
Boldly states in deep blue ink, ''I'm fine
Though I spend my nights crying into a tattered pillow
That has never known what it's like to be dry'',
He exists in those moments & like a moth to a flame,
Like the gentle breeze in the night time,
His poetry whispers to him,
Like a broken boat on a wrinked shore of forgotten men-
''I am fine'', his words patter out, ''Just fine in my nothingness''...

This boy, in truthful prose proclaims,
''I smile like life is my winning game,
Like missing shards in a mirror can create a new series of perfection'',
This is the perfect debut of a perfomance gone bad,
A playwright, all the actors gone mad,
''I am fine'', as a 'poet' he writes,
''Just fine, since life has taught me
To find nothing in what should have been everything'',
This boy of poetry, of the spoken word,
Has become a walking bleeding wound
That's gradually become a battle-scar of the mind's internal wars,
He is a faded smile,
A watery thing the shade of faded blue jeans washed too many times,
The appearance of eyes that have spent their lifetime blind,
His story is one of lost trust,
& hearts trampled underfoot into clouds of blood-red dust..

This poet, this boy labelled by those who don't know him,
But who know the stereotypes,
He knows that it's really hard to explain the immensity of the wreckage,
To someone that came into his head in the face of the aftermath,
This boy knows, this pretend poet knows,
That the truth is more easily consumed with a series of high-strung words
That make the rest of the world feel smart,
So he writes the truth simply,
The lack of complexity shows him to be sorting through the things he's been hearing,
''I am a poet!!!'' this is what he screams,
Even though his heart does not pump blood but poetic verse,
& just as the sun exists in the sky,
This boy, this boy-
He exists in the forgiving arms of poetry...

He is poetry-
He is the beat inside the soul,
He is the emotion, he is the life,
He is the passion,
He is the bubbling energy, the very source of inspiration,
He is the sparkle in the eyes, the smile on the lips,
He is the ink flowing richly through the veins & onto the paper,
He may go through hell itself but he will never stop writing,
For writing is his recluse, his haven,
His each breath is a melody, his heart beats verse,
He may be bent, but never broken,
& his poetry will live on,
For he is poetry in itself..