“File these (bad events) away as future poem ideas. I don't know if I could do what I do if it were not for all the sh*t I've been through. The joy too, yeah, there's that, but I am beginning to believe that people who know only joy don't write poetry. They don't have to. ”
I once thought I was quite mad
this thought is still resonates
my point to make is about writing
those things I suffer through.
To come out and speak my mind
would be the bludgeon misapplied
on kind readers with same struggles
not wanting reminder of a cruel world.
I blogged once a day in an effort
to force the inner to find ease
with a world both loved for beauty
and hated for the self-existence.
The angst was skirted in attempts
to share the lunacy within
with vanilla revelations so shallow
as to make wonder bread delicious.
A day years later I was rescued
by the hand of an old friend
poetry had come and gone
from my pen to spilled ink.
Now avenue for revelation was given
to the voices raw with rage
turned against the owner's self
in desire to end existence.
Distance given to bloody tales
denial is the artist's prerogative
even as the guts are spilled
of a tableau of a life exposed.
Uncertainty is the masque
of poet's sharing to the masses
when the wordsmith does proclaim
for themselves or other men.
Larger forces are at here at hand
with tidal forces of humanity
their capacity for joy sometimes outdone
by the longing for something more.
My story was more dire than most
with the tinge of endings wished
though the source is too common
to the expanse of my fellow men.
In the end the dungeons expel
the worst of corpses kept within
through the rhyme of lyrical
wrapped in muse's license to reveal.
Don't imagine confessions tell
that the vampires were mine this day
brought to life to be expunged
witnessed by you fair reader most kind.
© 2016, Sean Green. All Rights Reserved, 20160417.