cursive is the best way to describe my pen
because only the quaint wish to read
as days pass by
leaving, simply leaving things to be.
let the ink be quaint and articles lay loose
while syllables go uncounted
and words spew from my mouth
like frivolous storms striking a new enigma on paper.
let the graphite from my pencil
evoke enough rubber-ed eraser on the page
to drown my desk in red,
as the pink marks stain the paper
and leave no remorse to the once
sought out rough draft...
let my mind grow weary
on countless hours of writing
where poetry stops coming from the lips of my tongue
to the page of my paper
but instead i start to think poetry everywhere i go.
let the letters i write for anything
decide the outcome of my life
as they create symbolism and let my world
turn into a metaphor for living because
most people want to live poetry...
if my life is poetry and the way i breathe is poetry
then let poetry sing its last lines on a burial
where my tombstone is crippled
with the last footnote and oxymoron that i too
must rest in pieces, for i have written many pieces
and illuminated the sun.
let my body be cremated on a pile of words
that speak to my life
as raw as my words are on this page
as i continue to go unedited and fully known
that my poetic voice is more than mere fluff and fairy tales.
i hope my nose grows large for pretending to be Pinocchio
because today i lie about not living poetry
today my handwriting is less than poetry
and today my lies tell others
that i am not fulfilling my dreams...