Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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There’s a poet who hides deep inside, and wants to come out. But I won’t let him. I’m too strong for him. I hold him back. He wants to show me the beauty in this world. He tries to make me feel— To care about other people. To LOVE even! Imagine that! It’s all bull anyway. So I push him down. He is too soft, Too weak, Too emotional and sensitive. Father called him a ing pussy—Back when he was still alive. There’s a poet who dreams, deep inside, And has the courage to scream and shout. But I don’t let him. I silence him— With booze, drugs and women. But still he hopes and he dreams. Still he writes his pretty little words that sing. And I shut it down. I am too tough for him. I am too much of a man to be seen like that! No one wants to hear him. No body gives a about a sensitive, sentimental man. So I shut him up. I drown him in whiskey, and choke him with pills. I hide him behind a curtain of smoke, and callous his heart with whores and drunken empty sex. But he’s not fooled. There’s a poet who cries deep inside, And some nights— When I’m just drunk enough, and no one is around, I’ll let him out. We have coffee together, And we talk. He likes that. He scribbles his heart out on coffee napkins, As I fill the ashtray with cigarette butts. I let this beautiful bird find his wings, And let his soft, secret voice sing. He smiles, He smiles at the waitress, And gives her a wink. He’s happy. He’s so happy. —And free, Free from the pressures of pretending. Free from the burdens of perception and expectation. He sits there smiling and sipping his coffee contently. And that pisses me off. Why the are you smiling? What do you have to be happy about? You haven’t earned this? You don’t deserve to be happy. You don’t know what it takes to survive in this world. You haven’t worked for this. You haven’t fought for this. You’re a weak, pathetic man. So I snatch his storied napkins, Pop a few more pills and down them with another double. I shove his scrawny little ass back into his corner, And he whimpers, and wonders why? I laugh and light another cigarette— In a heady, drunken-smoky haze, I yell at him for sneaking out. Don’t ever come out again, I warn. Next time, there will be consequences— Next time I will ing kill you, I say. But he doesn’t listen, He never does. There’s a poet who’s broken deep inside, and he’s longing to get out. Tonight he’s clawing at the walls of my mind, And tearing at the hardwood of my heart. He’s scribbling stanzas on the shades of my eyes. He’s worried, And his whispers are louder than ever. And I can’t take anymore! Not tonight— Shut Up! Shut Up, I scream. As I pour another glass- And then one more. No more! I say. No more whispered words, No more goddamn hymns, No more sonnets and verses. I light a cigarette- and set fire to the pages. Tonight, I burn this whole world down. Tonight, I crush the pen, Tonight, I silence the poet within. Tonight—I take the pills, All of them. The poet tries to stop me. He begs, he pleads he bargains. But it’s too late— Too late for reasons Too late for rhymes Too late for the poet And too late for the poem. My hand trembles as I bring that handful of pills to my mouth. Bitterness is washed down in four long pulls from the bottle. The bourbon burns tonight— And I stuck thinking, at least I can still feel something. The room beings to spin, and the edges start to fade, And for the first time in a long time, —It is quiet. In the silence I reach for the poet, But he is not there….. He has gone home, And I…. I have never felt more alone. —Edward

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