As a young man,
I was always obsessed
By melancholy,
I saw deep sadness
As glamorous and romantic,
The quality
That so tormented my heroes,
Such as Arthur Rimbaud,
Sergei Esenin,
And Montgomery Clift.
But it's not...
It's not remotely romantic,
When you yourself are adrift,
And weighed down by a multitude of woes.
I am so tired, my friend
Tired of scaring my own heart
To please the hearts of others
Tired of feeding with vodka and Russia
The sadness of my poems
I sang feedom, imprisoned by my fever
So young and so tired
Not sorry, not calling, not crying
I am shutting my eyes
And arbitrary blackness is galloping in
Black hotel room, black blood
And stars start waltzing on the ceiling
Dying is nothing new in this life
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.