The Poet’s Curse
Flooded mind in an arid desert existence
my oasis is a
square peg in Maslows hierarchy.
feed me paper plated possibilities
while my lungs burn
for ink stained atmosphere.
Outsider,
silent observer and undesignated critic -
the ticking never stops
without poetic deconstruction
of societal wastleland shaped bombs.
Born into this
I decry my morbid existence,
spent in solitude
spent in hunger,
as amorphous animalistic anger
festers until light rises
out of clear sighted verses.
Torpefied torment only cured
by hospitalized hour handed
time spent,
without relent
in my parabolic chair
of destined empathic expression.
Born into this,
my perennial poets curse
