Why I Became A Poet
As a young boy my dreams and voice were shattered,
I was beaten with words like raging stones thrown in anger,
Threatened with violence until my life no longer mattered,
Spoken word became less as it placed my life in danger.
I would walk the streets with my mother and sisters,
The real man of the house but still a six year old boy,
We would walk for miles in fear long after the blisters,
But I wasn't a man I was just a young unwanted toy.
The nightmares would come by day and most nights,
Emotions of fear no joy trembled through my heart,
An alcoholic father always thinking he was in the right,
Until one day we escaped and to ireland a new start.
The nightmares and headaches continued for many years,
My voice had been murdered by the man I most loved,
Who never gave me love my hero father who I feared,
In the darkness of my world I knew I was so unloved.
For many years a silent boy kept a quivering voice in check,
But a father's bond with son is so intrinsically linked,
I was left fatherless, a shell of a boy, an unjoyous bloody wreck,
Until a teacher read oscar wilde and that's what made me think.
To this day I remember so much of the Ballad of Reading Gaol,
Even though I didn't understand it I loved how he played with words,
I thought if I could write poetry then my words could never fail,
To express loneliness and fear and the freedom I saw in birds.
And so from a little boy afraid to speak the pen was my best and only friend,
It taught me how to channel love and fear when my voice I had reserved,
You may not like the way I write but It comes from deep within my heart,
For poetry is how I saved myself it's the reason my life was preserved.
I have such little time to write and comment on poets so deserving,
As I know we all have our different reasons why we became poets,
I write because my voice was stolen and lifes miracles are for observing,
But writing helps me through each day when I'm feeling at my lowest .
So I owe my life to poetry but poetry owes me nothing,
For unspoken words are never heard but written words are read,
As I walk and think of haunting memories and a child's stolen tongue,
I think of my teacher, of Oscar Wilde and not those who wished me dead.
And with aging mind when I have no memories of my own to remember,
And the poverty that lived in the small boys heart now lies buried along side me,
When I no longer have to console my heart or revisit failed love in temper,
I will have a record of my many flaws and a life saved by a world of poetry.
Copyright ©
Daniel Caplin
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