Perhaps poetry is
the gods gift to the lonely
A way to bleed out
the words to which there is no one to speak
Allowing the soul
to bleed its ink in a way that borrows not from next week
Poetry is the
empty chair
The accepting ear
The soul’s
bloodletting and tears
A place where it’s
okay to dump all of one’s fears.
Perhaps poetry is
the gods gift to the lonely
A way for one’s
heart to hemorrhage onto a page
Without the risk
that comes when you spill your pain to a waiting ear.
Perhaps poetry is
for the broken
An ode to all of
the words left unspoken
The gods little
token to those whose hearts have been ripped open
A drink of water
in the desert
Of the minds
midnight ride through time.
Perhaps poetry is
bleeding black onto white
That silently
screaming insight
The quiet girl
with madness in her eyes
Who knows that no
matter how hard she tries
The empty seat
will not speak, will not see, will not ever truly be
An ear that
actually hears.
Perhaps poetry is
sadness and rage and joy and pain
The ink under one’s
skin
An intricate
invitation to sin
Demons on a page,
no longer repressed in their cage
Take them out and
teach them to dance
Because life is
one manic chance.
Perhaps poetry is
the dark light of the soul
The place everyone
is afraid to look
Like a banned
book, a dangerous hook.
I’ll be your
little angel of sin
I am a reflection
of your pain, your rage, your own personal version of insane
I am the midnight
darkness of your mind,
all that shit you
tried so hard to bury inside
the demise of
projection and pride.
And so I’ll sit
with the empty chair
Send my whispers
out into the air
Let it sit back
and watch the demons that dance within
Rubbing my mind on
the edges of silently smooth wood
Soften them
perhaps a bit for a moment
With the words
otherwise left unspoken
Perhaps poetry is for
the lonely
The ones made up
of only dreams and other broken little things
Perhaps poetry is
all of the words left unspoken
Expressed simply as
the language of the broken.
