I rage at the incompetence of my words
Another futile attempt to
Pierce the caul
That filters my dreams
Ripped from a woman’s womb
Not of a woman born
Seeking companionship
Finding only scorn
The obfuscations of Satanic spawn
The TV’s point of singularity
Into that black hole I’m drawn
Blinding me with banality
They killed Lenny Bruce
Disguised as overdose
They though they broke him
The Pharisees did boast
They died faceless, unknown
They are forgotten corpses
Devoid of flesh and bone
His words live on
I am a Poet
I dance
Between the crushing weight
Of conformity and chaos
I move to a rhythm and beat
That speaks to my unique vision
My songs are pain
Not joy
Of questions
Not knowledge
Of a broken heart
Not love
I am the pack less wolf
The outsider
You never see me
I hover on the edge of invisibility
I am the embarrassed pause
The faux pas
And the lost cause
I am a poet
I am what the world made me
And what I was meant to be
Tags: artists. who are we?, craft, Poet, wonder
Well you sure are Quas.… a poet indeed. And I love that first stanza… it’s perfect.. I feel that way all the time. It seems words can’t even come close sometimes… most of the time… Great work Quas… my perfectly poetic friend
Thanks so much Para, I’ll give you an account if you want, I have to check the settings could have swore I disabled all that stuff. I don’t want to bust people’s chops for all that info I really don’t want
Yea Para I always feel I miss the mark most of the time. it’s weird that Poets are actually failures more times than not, it’s in the effort I guess cause it’s almost impossible to do what we do and be successful and the time. Thanks my friend…