Monday, January 06, 2014

And I Call The Bastard, Art--A Poem

This is my first new poem of the new year--

My head feels like it wants to explode,
full to the brim, it is,
with ideas,
night terrors
both real
and imagined;
that are better kept
let alone,
put down on paper;

I can actually feel time
slipping away,
I wish I had every minute
to myself
to write down
everything I want to say,
I need to say;
how many books
could I fill up then?
I am
a frustrated writer,
a musician
who never learned
an instrument,
but I know music
flows through
each word I write;
an artist,
with pages
upon pages
of blank canvas,
that need to be brought
to life,
with the stuff of life
that’s in my head,
which is
making it want to explode.

Mine is
a restless soul,
ever thirsty,
ever hungry,
eyes wandering,
always seeking,
always questioning,
always wanting
and never satisfied.

Do not pity me,
for I need not,
your pity;
do not fear me,
for I am not to be feared;
I am.
like all of you,
an amalgamation
of flaws,
ugly truths,
raw beauty,
too much to contain

Coming to this realization,
I believe,
is why God
has both blessed
and cursed me
to be a poet,
for it is the poet’s
to convey ugly truths,
to reveal
raw beauty,
in ways
that those who choose
to see
can understand.

My head feels like it wants to explode,
because my duty,
my cross to bear,
my ordained mission
has not yet been fulfilled.
I will close this poem,
because there is
still so much
that needs to be said,
that needs to be done--
that bastard stepchild
born from the conflation
of my ego
and my pain,
and my penance
is not yet done.

© 2014 Joseph Powell

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