Give me then something to write about
All the truth-tellers scrambling around
Aching twisting burning out
Because really, whats left to say?
Why write why write why write
Poetry?
Why write something that has no meaning?
NO MEANING?!
Think of the thought that gave it birth
The hands that gave it breath
The ink that sent blood flowing!
To say it has no meaning?
Why write then?
Glory, glory glory?
The ink of pen on page
Wordsworth, Yeats Donne,
They are, have been, long gone.
Do you want to go down forever,
As a mad poet?
OH I am a mad poet!
I write the scrambling screaming truths
So quickly my skin shatters
I cannot hold them in.
I shake my hair and phrases fly out
Theology, philosophy
A cacophany in my brain.
It all falls out like rain.
Why write then?

Why write anything?
Why learn the words and curves and open lines
That come from laying down these lines?
Be a street poet, a rapper?
Lay down the beat and sing the skeltonic,
For we are all street poets
Masters of the word-wild world
Yeah, not.
Why write then?

To master, to be a master?
To be an ancient, a wise thing
A POET? All capital letters and high-minded
Words to fill up spaces
Great thinkers, speakers dreamers?
Are we all POETS? To think the mad things?
No, no we are not.
Why write then?

Why sling the words across the page
Like spilling wine on a table cloth
Leave them to soak into the table
Stain your hands prism color?
Are we all artists?
No we are poets.
Poetry is art! You argue.
I can argue back.

Poetry is not art,
It is your soul breathing.
The questions you dare not ask
Accusations you cannot make,
Poetry provides an opening.
For the truth to takes its place.

Providing, of course,
That it is, indeed, truth.