Confessions of a Wannabe Poet

Three Word Wednesday

How can I stop these nasty cravings?

My gluttonous hunger never ceasing I am

Always lusting after what I cannot possess

The illusive goal of literary excellence

All art being subjective, I am

Perpetually straddling the border

Between the brilliant and the grotesque

(Heaven forbid I should be mediocre)


Fragile is the poet’s heart

Cannibalistic in the consumption

Of itself. An exorcism, this writing

A book of  demons my  journal,

I’ve got a spirit designed for

Suffering, a mind that rests

Squarely in the eye of the storm


Occult truths are divined in the bones

The universe has supplied us

Liberally with answers we simply

Haven’t the facility or the courage

To ask the right questions

(Creators simply invent their own)


Writers are masters at hide and seek,

They conceal in plain sight, symbolism being

The ultimate subterfuge they might be a tree, a bird,

Or even the song that sustains, they’ve an arsenal

Of mask and identities, every word uttered a

Variation of self, they are given

To confession, the heat of their interrogative mind

Would boil them alive if they remained silent


(I did manage to write before the concert after all =))