Why the Poet Writes
When a poet writes, the past has been opened,
pried at with crowbars and curiosity
He reaches,
pulling strands of words and metaphors from cracked corners of faint memories.
Ink pouring from old feather tips.
With lights up all night long, he forgets life is time
darkness circles around his eyes creating an umbra of unwanted sleep
Rhythms grow rapidly, beats pounding, head throbbing.
He is one with the background music
He has loved to much,
pouring light and sudden gaiety onto pages of stripped truth
he has left his heart on paper.
but a poet does not miss what’s gone,
for the book is not yet done.
They don’t know how it ends
Or even how it started
Hugging the darkness of night
An un-sober mind spins
for when a poet writes, the past has been opened
and the present stops.
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