Why be a poet, if nothing can be done, to prevent one from being dumb?
I suppose, so that it’s not as scary,
Whenever things just begin to get dreary.
However dreamlike a poet can be,
His indecision proves him costly.
So whenever it does get shitty,
Just remember what it means to be gritty.
What it means to pose for the world,
In a mask perceived by you, not someone.
And just in case you feel extraordinary bold,
Don’t feel too ashamed naked in the cold.
However many times you dig your head in the sand,
In prevention of emotions, secrets to hit the fan,
Reminisce of the silent marshmallows at night,
That bring you that lavender sweet end of sight.
So then everything will be quite alright,
In the morning, you’ll still be up and alive.
So many changes, so drastically transpiring,
That my poems have consistently been crying.
A bump to a bump in my life’s journey unfolded,
That I never got the chance to get over the first bump,
Never got the chance to breathe,
Never got the chance to fully unload it.
Before I would get smacked with a new addition,
Recharging my batteries was not a tradition,
And therefore, I reacted with so much emotion,
That I’m shocked I’m still even making this notion.
Nonetheless, if a poet, I can say that I am,
I can’t say that I have any particular map or plan.
I’m beginning to drift through life just biting the bullets,
And enjoying this newly found strength to the fullest.