The Calling of a Poet
“Being a Poet is more of a calling, rather than a profession. Whether
it be easy or hard, it has no bearing whatsoever upon the writing of
Poetry.” - Lucienne La Luna
I say it is a giftful illness,
You say it is delusion,
Afflicted by imaginary disease,
And you would be lucky to think that.
This is not a glamorous life,
This is retribution for past transgressions,
Both done to me,
And done by me.
This is the existence,
Of an elephant learning to paint,
Expressing it's pain to a crowd,
Of onlookers and bystanders.
A Poet is a slave to no one,
With the exception of everyone,
You know your heart beats,
At the pace of its own drum.
Was the heart put there?
Was the drum always so loud?
You try to show your soul to share,
With a world so full of souls,
A room so full of music,
To drown out my drum.
You see me swing my arms,
Beating brutally to be heard,
But you only hear whispers,
Of a cacophony of emotions.
Each bleeding beat of the drum,
Splashing red paint in my eyes,
Stinging, tearing, screaming,
Hoping someone will hear.
You say it is the gift of madness,
I simply call it a calling,
Easy or hard,
Which do you think it is?
The Calling of a Poet.
