Saturday, October 8, 2016


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.