I thought that I had a way with words

but today I realized that all I really do

is wear my heart on my sleeve

I bleed myself in public

so that others can see the dripping

pain

released through my veins

that's not a poet

that's a fool

the world is a cruel and unusual place

I did not choose to have this obsession

placed into my brain, Stop…please stop

the Fuc*ing madness

I am not a ride at the amusement park

even if I were the gates are closed

it's time you all went the hell home

side show Bob wore his talent on his sleeve

he had no choice it was a matter of

affliction

I however was born with this

unending need, this deep seated desire

to pour emotion from my heart

fill my cup just to watch it spill over

parchment and quill quick at my side

the weapons of my destruction

I'd be better served to carve my pain

upon my flesh, at least then

it would be real

I bleed

deep crimson red

I cry

enough tears to fill a river

but god knows

it's only on the inside

I drown in my own illusions

tortured

just as it was planned

they speak of poets past

and I speak of modern day

prophets

screw the dead

what about the living dead

what about the recent dead

don't forget those who wish we were dead

I read Poe….at least once

and only yesterday I read Plath…

beyond that, my inspiration comes

from the modern messiahs

demons cast out of gods heaven

to create their own hell

I read my own brand of angels

Etheridge, Defranco, Schleske and occasionally

if I'm feeling really, really deep

I will close my eyes and allow Enya and Sarah

to sing me to sleep

these are my hero's, my poets, my roots

and today

I am not a Fuc*ing poet

I am a person

I will stand naked before you

I will slice my veins with a razor's edge

I will bleed the words that you

cannot comprehend

because you

are a poet