The Poet

Posted: 18/07/2010 in Poetry
Tags:

He spoke of love in dismal silence
Held his pen and wrote the words
Used his wits on promises devoid of meaning
Held his truthful lies inscribed in scrolls

He the poet
Whose heart was killed by a lost love
Whose soul bled from a morbid assault
Whose body is sheltered on burning ice

Blessed with a passion
Of manipulating words on his sage
With the gift
Of using words to let his heart utter its speech
With the curse
Of loving and losing that which he loves
Blessed yet afflicted

He the poet
Whose precious tongue
Is his pen
Whose speech is made of paper

He the poet
Trapped on prevaricated world
Confined in images of long forgotten past
Lost in a confused world of unfound solitude
Imprisoned by fatal tribulations

He the poet
Whose eyes gaze with luminous light
Whose life is pinned on a calling
A troubled heart only can satisfy

He the poet
A martyr, a victim of his own fate

© CMN

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Comments
  1. theagentcoma says:

    Wow, so I can totally relate to this and I’m sure you can, too. Poetry is tough stuff, like you said – it’s a blessing and a curse at the same time. Now I haven’t endured anywhere near the kind of anguish that let’s say, Edgar Allen Poe has, but I can still feel you on this done. Well done. Appreciate the honesty.

    Like

    • chaspalette says:

      I actually think that this is absolute to all who write poetry. For one, human emotions is really unfathomable and sometimes, no matter how much effort we put in, words always get in the way. Using poetry can either describe human emotions or defeat the very purpose of why it was written. Yes, indeed, its a blessing and a curse.

      Thanks for visiting my page, and hope to read some from you. =)

      Like

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