my early twenties

i had a dream a sullen dream so very long ago

i was an artist in this dream who thought that you should know

that poetry was meant to be the reason we exist

no other words but poetry should be upon our lips

 

the days went by as days will do and no one would agree

that there is nothing to live for but words and poetry

and so the poet put away the visions and the dreams

the diamond stars were now just stars and all was as it seems

 

and happiness and things of bliss all disappeared from view

and though the poet can’t digest he chews and chews and chews

he worked his abs and fought the flab, he listened and he heard

he did his chores and played the whore, oh god it’s been absurd

 

and decades dance away and you can find you’re still alive

and every time the poet prays he’s only speaking lies

for words are all he cares about and feels that they should reach

that moment when the sun is shining on a golden beach

 

however one can reach that place is how they ought to go

i’ll walk this sod a living fraud until i finally know

that moment way back in my past when all that i lived for

was poetry and poetry and poems and nothing more

 

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