Time can pass slowly
in the most unlikely of places
The poet, pen in hand weaves words
and blends them in those dark moments,
does this mayhem permeate his souls longing?
Needing that time to be free,
yet continually making the path so hard to bear,
for himself and his own comfort
The poet feeds himself with sorrow,
in order to find those words,
the prose that comes from a broken heart
A wound so deep it takes some crazy mystery
to find out why
A wound carved into his mind
that for years he covers over,
anaesthetising his pain and deep remorse
And on he writes
spelling out the mystery and the dark thoughts from within
Will it end?
Will the pages turn into a new beginning?
A possible new song
that in time becomes medicine for a drunken
dysfunctional world of young blood,
needing the voice of this poet
to help them remember who they really are,
because they know he knows,
They know his heart and they know he sees them
And does the poet continue to write from that dark place.
Knowing it fuels the very artistic creations he requires,
for melancholy reasoning,
to free that wild voice within him,
that frightened voice,
that angry voice.
That voice of a young boy who could not speak out,
yet swallowed pain into his belly,
poisoning his mind against a world who did him wrong!
Can he turn to a new page,
a new poem,
a new way to live this life
A life unsung as yet,
but one that awaits his call
Waits for him to make that simple ‘yes’ to life and living as a free man,
both in his heart as well as his land
Live the life of his true soul,
live the life of his true purpose,
meet the child that needs his gold.