I write in public spaces;
here is a truly free verse poem for you.
I sit among the casual masses,
unashamed I admit this to you.
Pen and paper,
once a true and devoted friend,
has somehow become a public distraction,
and possibly an albatross of discussion.
With those that shit out writings,
somehow I today wipe it with a public nuisance.
My technology usually my guise,
the blackberry memo pad my guide,
to senselessly blend in,
my individuality and writing style it does hide.
My night typically looks as if texting and surfing some web.
Here is that wasted day getting displayed,
poetry, prose, and humility unappraised.
For today, the old words look young.
Today, fake applause and praise are dead,
tomorrow offering promise,
another lie and parable to display.
I write my sadness,
ultimate and true.
I display some contempt,
it must have been recorded before.
You seem to see, listen, respond,
to that dial tone, for which I do not prescribe.
Give me truth, contradiction, and humility,
for some religious penance in payment I shall return.
These words may seem effortless and hopeful.
Reality shines light on the fact that they
are learned in blood, and lost ships at sea.
I control nothing,
my brain is ink,
and I put to paper promises for my lungs to breathe.
this is my effortless and sublime lie,
on some sunny afternoon.
Poetry is a battlefield of idealism,
that I somehow keep discussing.
syllables and consonants I never quite comprehended,
my soul somehow grasps onto.
I often desire to silence this prolific pen,
it creates when my body sleeps.
Created here to for, are pages owned by my soul.
Here displayed is what I may hope to create.
free verse in its purest,
I, an artist only in your eye.
I create as my heart skips beats,
and say it so effortlessly.