A writer’s soul …
Tis a burden to be a writer,
a soul betrayer expletive,
a pen dipped in blood
a frantic heart upon a sleeve.
As the soul must fly
for the eloquence of words,
the flesh must lie
and with sin converse,
for pain and truth intravenously fed,
needs a little help
to assimilate in stead.
For all the beauty that finds a page,
there is darkness and solitude,
despair and rage,
as we in driven creative fancy,
sacrifice all for words of plenty,
and stale beer and cigarettes,
cannot consume the deep regrets
that haunt a writer’s mind.
It is we, who rise and fall, ingratiate,
all for the glory of words,
and hearts are bruised, beaten and bled,
all for what the soul has said,
and even booze won’t mend my head,
when beauty commends this husk to rest.
As words are squeezed,
pulled, dragged and cut
to fill this pristine empty cup,
with sweat and blood and long lost dreams,
damned words just deliver my everything,
and still the numb of oblivion’s comfort
cannot erase the pain,
that life in its explicable beauty
imposes on a writer’s soul,
with no-one left to blame.