Unrequited Verse

As the lines I had to write
took a new twist of the pen,
my words became mangled
together in thoughts and lost
actions, where my truths had
spilt over and were now left
a harbored mess on the page.
My unwritten verses sought
revenge against my untamed
writers mind – I had deceived
the voice I once followed by
moonlight, left to scrounge on
the scraps of ink and dreams.
I became filled with wild and
impossible thoughts, crushing
the landscape of paper and pen,
ready to burn the bridges of the
written word and set the world
on fire with tongue and verse –
poetry is not dead, it is rising.

24 to write.

write.

I write this word a lot –
almost two dozen times a day.

It’s on sticky notes, my hand,
        it’s on my notebook –
        every single page –

it’s on my mind.

I write until I can’t remember,
sometimes I write to forget.

There are days when time sneaks away
from me, and then there are days
when I am part of the
        sixty six second minute.

That’s called fiction.

I can be in the right, or wrong.
And as long as I’m aware of that fact,
        I’m right, again. So no matter,
                I still win.

I have tried the whole rhyme thing,
but no good words rhyme with write.
        It’s too predictable, it’s too much.

I can’t commit to one poem about a word.
        It’s like a prison sentence.

That’s why I write it so much.
I space them, I slant them, I chant them,
and I rant about the whole process.
        because I can.

Creative Authority.
Artistic Liability.
Lack of editing, what have you.

I’m right. I’m still right.

And even when I’m wrong,
        write.