Perhaps...

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.