Appreciation of it, what is it?
a mutation, new doorways and
recollections, being sick to your
stomach before you bring your
art and intensity to the people.
Stretch your words and let the
gods command from you, and
listen to your gifts.
When I was young freshness
came to me yet it lingered for
years before the meanings
Humanity is a dance, we must
perform to keep our minds
and stretch our art, so people
understand the meanings
We are criers in the night
showing love, sadness with our
eyes teared, and transformations
working within our souls, late
into the night, some of us drinking
ourselves into a stupor, smoking
our fags and pressing the butts
into the ash, left there in the stinking
trays while rings of smoke, circle
our halo sordid minds, lost poets
we are and naked as empty grave.
Look what thoughts will do, when
we chase the colors of each word of
red to space, and blues of the
skies that envelope around our heads,
the cat eyes that sharpen our fits
Oh how rich I am in my mind, my empty
space with typing fingers that bleed with
each key pressed into nothing but empty
space, and white smudged by impressions
of ugly ink of worn keys that mock this poet.
Let me hang my words of troubled sleep,
for this will never be who I am, or mentioned
again, for I am nothing but a poet who
searches for a moment that will allow my
sins to be the inferno from my soul.
I am born again nightly but dead by
the morning, as I try to cultivate the
seed of passion and inspiration of
writing, while my heart is sad and my
fellow blaming me for who I am,
a simple poet lost in the past, dying
in the present and longing for
a future somewhere else.
Melpomene my Muse of tragedy,
let me sing and let me do my
poetry, or forever shut my mouth
and bind my lips, and still my
tongue into the silent night.
Oh how I fear the angel of mercy
who soothes the tongue that my
Muse cuts through the foggy night,
sailing away from where I stand.
I am bare and shapeless, no form,
just a wilted black rose cut and left
to die on top my coffin shiny black
as I’m lowered to the receiving
© Copyright 2013 by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved