On Calling Oneself a Poet

Calling oneself a poet takes unmitigated gall and guts And he or she should be prepared To throw oneself off a high cliff Or under the proverbial bus Whenever the expression of innermost thoughts, Emotions, ideas or beliefs are concerned Those who lay it all out on the line often times Get busted, beaten, belittled or burned. Speaking straight from the heart And soul typically involves taking A road less easily traveled Or mountain made steeper to climb From those who read but cannot see Beauty and truth hit them between their eyes. To write of an ex-lover may tend to uncover Bones buried deep in the past Which are better unearthed for whatever they’re worth: Sweet memories rarely fade fast. Or perhaps you agree with riots in the streets And nothing is worth more attention Than a poet who subscribes To every person who ought to strive Towards the greatest good For self and other friends While you might think it better To mind my own business And stop writing about reality and make pretend… Penning one’s personal moments For others to debate Is akin to placing their head on a stump While waiting for the blade to penetrate Skin and bone and taking us home To a place where no one laughs At anything we say or think And our poetry will forever last. Longer than the blood-letting That oozes from our brains While others stand outside of us Laughing in the rain As we foolish, fussy writers keep on Twisting words and phrases And the world keeps right on turning Like our pithy, poetic pages. 12/4/2014