a poem is a fun house mirror reflection of secret things
elongated shadows
trick photography
sometimes Vaseline on the lens to smooth out the wrinkles
other times no filter
just ragged bloody claw marks and desperate screams, empty rooms and crowded elevator cars of filth and anguish
happy little scenes
and grotesque menageries of wounded dying daydreams
like a crowded freeway at rush hour
everyone has somewhere to be
some are content to just sit and listen to the music
while others bash the steering wheel and scream voiceless rage at the others trapped on the concrete arteries like so much arterial plaque, causing an excess of pressure that can only lead to an explosion
of love and life
lyrical intensity and beautiful odes
the darker side
ripping chunks of flesh from the still writhing corpse of angst and impotent sorrow
written in tears, in blood, in promises of eternal hope, scratched by broken nails into the fabric of existence, carved into skin or stone
painted with airy brush strokes
branded by fiery irons
but always beautiful
even in the ugliest, bare to the elements, there is a glimpse into the soul of the writer, the poet, the fool, the artist
fumbled misspelled decrees and cursive eloquent dalliances
bereft of hope
saturated in incomprehensible metaphor
word play and direct bile
one line can erase a desert of pain
or flood the plains with torment so pure it becomes whimsy
i hammer the language from raw ore, pound the red hot steel into something that resembles coherency, toss it into the quenching waters and let stand whatever monstrosity is laid free, set loose upon the aether to poison or titillate
for i am just a clumsy oaf
aware of his ineffectual shortcomings and strained voice
spewing toxic sludge and ideas of unrequited fantasy
but it helps
even if it alleviates the discomfort for a moment
it helps
if it reaches one person that feels like the ever falling detritus of life is about to bury them
we have words
and in a place of uncertainty
sometimes that is enough
in the darkness
any flickering light can help
Poetry is Life itself
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It is indeed
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Absolutely. I totally get this.
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