Sing, Goddess
Sing, O Goddess, of my petulant wrath.
That which I’ve failed to address for so long.
Speak and guide my hand to express
The words of extremity needed to voice:
Passions of violent nature performed.
I have such strange verses to bare.
My hands are quaking with unrealized strokes
Of genius that may yet flow forth from I
My tongue is wet with wanton wanting,
Breathing, believing in all I deplore.
I forefront this painstaking proclamation
With pretenses of seduction and sweet
Manipulation. I hope you get my meaning.
I have strained and sullied my own name
To achieve a stage of pure expression.
I pray to the goddess of art and music
That she may pluck my strings as her
Kithara, her disclosure, her discord.
Perhaps this line will liberate me.
I could stop this senseless seduction
Of myself to share my mind in this message
Of either vindication or virulent codependency,
With either pretense my name is upon
The dotted line, cosigning this dissent.
It matters not where my influence lay.
Who listens, and who may do as I say.
My only concern I to briefly appeal
To some vague aesthetic ideal that I feel.
And I think it may be important.
Because I feel it. And it is so alive.
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