Ballad of the Poet

The poet sat in a pool of her own blood,

Not quite certain how she got there,

But very sure it was a perfectly normal occurrence,

And not to be questioned.

Oh yes – for she could feel the words

Seeping grotesquely from her bones and

Gathering all around her and she

Could sense the inspiration leaking

From her strangely unslit wrists

And she reckoned that she understood,

Because she chose the life of a poet – and

To be a poet is to always have

Dirt, blood and words

On your hands.

*   *   *

You ask her for beauty,

You ask her for woe,

But her fingers write with a mind of their own

And heed no mortal request.

It is not her business to

Brighten or darken your world and

Give you a reason for living.

She exists for the sole purpose of

Opening your eyes to the

Swirling, deliciously chaotic

Mess of her mind.

And sure, she’d quite like to

Stand naked and divine in front of you and

Pretend she’s some kind of goddess

But really, all she is

Is an exile, a captive

Given paper.

*   *   *

So you look at her,

Sitting cross-legged on the floor,

Poring over notebooks,

Her hair a tangled mess and

Her soul even more so, and

You think this

Is so easy.

But what you don’t realize is that

These words are not pulled

From a pocket or some secret drawer.

She rips them from her guts and

Her very soul.

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