Misery Loves Poetry

Poems are for when I'm at war with myself

When emotion drives me, reeling, from the stage

Poems are for when my body cries "Enough!"

When I bathe my weary, headstrong brain in rage.

Words chop and dice and strive to capture feelings

That flurry by and round my mind again

Words make screaming inmates of my visions

For tourist readers gawping in the rain.

I hammer out my troubled self with mitre

Restrain it hard with stanzas, beat and verse

Far from a simple exercise in venting

This practice only serves to make things worse.

Once caught in black and white for all to see

My poetry, my misery on view

I read and read again and feel ashamed

To see my beast confined within its zoo.

I sit as judge and jury on myself

And read the lines my rage is sentenced to

And ponder how in all this sound and fury

It's easier to let my art break through.

When thought and physical combine

With no real need to rewrite or rehearse

Only soft and quietly rendered pencil strokes

Set firm against the viciousness of verse.

So when the battle rages at my gates

Or when the world conspires to drive me mad

Far better grab my sketchbook and be happy.

I only write my poetry when sad.