Poet’s Art
Not every writer wants success,
Some leap for the unthinkable,
By losing income and respect,
The gain is inexplicable.
I often wake up late at night,
The moon is up and starts are loud,
My head begins to make up words,
I’m scrambling to get them out.
Some days a feeling would arise,
My feet would pull toward the desk,
The pencil grabs my fingers tight,
The paper wants more words for sex.
A poet knows his heart is ripe,
Awaiting gestures and commands,
Sometimes drunk on only air,
The thoughts are like a million ants.
Not every writer aims for glory,
There’s real knowledge to contend,
A poet hunts for ghostly secrets,
Pencil firm in clasping hand.
I will not bow to market forces,
Refusing jobs of comfort zone,
My eyes require summer roses,
To write more poetry alone.
My love must know that I am crazy,
That feelings prod at living heart,
I live to know that nothing’s easy,
That writing poetry is h̸a̸r̸d̸ art!
