When the urge dies..

DEAD POET.

A poet never dies,

But what am I without my pen and paper?

What am I without the surging emotions of art?

The frustrations that come with a mediocre mind,

Days when I actually wonder,

Am I a poet?

When the heart is willing,

Yet the mind is rebellious,

Yes, I am poetically flawed,

The disappointment of rioting hormones,

I want to be a pastor, rapist, drug addict, a free bird

The redemption of pen and paper.

It’s like trying to enjoy the strumming of a stringless guitar,

And enjoying the tap of silent tunes,

Straining at the very verge of lost poetic sense,

I want to create wordless words,

After all whether dead or alive,

I am a poet.

It’s like having sight but not being able to see,

Or touching but not feeling,

Having the idea but not words,

Pain that doesn’t hurt,

Or rather joy that doesn’t exhilarate,

It frustrates the heart and drains the mind.

A nightmare so real, so intense

The real pains of being a dead poet.

Pen and paper do not fail me,

I seem to always have the right words

But when the mind becomes too mediocre,

Please pen and paper save me,

Relieve me of this shame,

I want to be alive again,

Bring back the glory of great masterpieces,

I need life and hope beyond this.

Please pen and paper,

Hear my plea,

For I am just but a dead poet

Hoping this time when I write,

You will give me life,

Pen and paper, all that I hold on to.