Of Poetry

Be it good, bad or indifferent I suppose I will always be a poet at heart.

One might think “real” writing (you know things like novels, short stories and blogs) would dissuade poetic tendencies but it doesn’t… and it shouldn’t.

Someone once said of poetry, “I honestly don’t know why it flies through my head but it’s like an energy that must be loosed and the only way I know to let it go is to jot it down.” Okay that someone was me but we’ve already established that authors and poets are insane a peculiar lot. At least that’s what I keep hearing from the voices living outside of my head.

Admittedly I tend to write disturbing prose. Why? I have no freaking idea other than the above explanation and this one just flew in.

Resident of Insanity

 

He gnashed and smashed his teeth to bits

Hissing shards of peppermint

On face and lace chipped molars lit

While gums and tongue did chide

~

The air like mud was thick with scent

Red with dread and white with grit

Dentin mixed with blood and spit

Where insanity did reside

~

He snatched and scratched at lights not lit

Held cries in eyes seen through slits

Pleading, “Someone give a shit

And plump this crumpled pride”

~

But none could hear his broken mouth

Or see the lights had all gone out

With hand on heart he faced the south

And they say that’s where he died

 

*Here’s this year’s first reminder that April is National Poetry Month so you have plenty of time to be thinking about it. Whether you read my poetry or that of someone else plan on expanding your horizons.

P.S. My works are not always of such unsettling nature. They’re worse when I’m happy 😉