I'm A Poet

By Jackamo   

I'm a poet I proclaim,
With an arrogance as though my words
Could cure cancer or feed a hungry child.
But no, again they fall short.
Then a wordsmith, at best.
Measuring, molding and fitting
Each word into each stanza into each story
About what though?
I have no muse,
How about that then?

Have you heard the news,
About my muse.
Found along the road dead,
A bullet in her head.
The way I figure,
You pulled the trigger.
Now nothings the same,
And it's you I blame.

Cute, but not much substance.

I'm not in love, I'm not in pain, Christ, I'm not even broke.
So unless someone out there wants to love me
Then break my heart
And spend all my money.
What have I got?
Maybe if I were in love I could write;

Beside the the stream beneath the trees
That sway and dance on summers breeze
Hides there a place of quiet mirth
Lies there a log of massive girth
A peaceful place to sit and ponder
A restful place to reflect God's wonder
We stop and talk of what ifs and back whens
Of childhood dreams and long lost friends
As pensive mood turns quite serene
Upon that log I made love to my darling lady queen.

But I can’t seem find a name or face to my queen.

If I were hurting I could write.

I’ll close my eyes and I will see you
Close my eyes and you’ll be there
I’ll close my eyes and we’ll be together
Close my eyes and go anywhere
I’ll close my eyes and I will kiss you
Close my eyes and you’ll kiss me too
I’ll close my eyes and I’ll never leave you
I’ll close my eyes
It’s all that I can do.

But my eyes are wide open.

Maybe if I was broke I could write.

So many tomorrows I’ve let slip away
While yesterday lives only in my dreams
Foolishly I put off what I could for a rainy day
Now it's much too late for all my plans and schemes
What ifs will plague my golden years
And whys will haunt my restless sleep
Now it's time to face my deepest fears
As I hang my head and weep.
Peter's come to collect his due
But that's all gone to Paul
How did my life become so askew
When I always thought I’d have it all.

But then that's just a lie.

So that just leaves me, me, and who I am
Just me, So I wrote.

It seems,
My life is filled with what "They" call wrong,
And yet,
I'm not willing to give up a thing.
So go ahead, look down your nose at me,
For all of my faults, my vices,
I'll look back at you with pity
Because you're not me.
I smile, a lot, eat and sleep when I want,
Work when I must
Make love when I can.
The reality of it all is,
I'm shackled to only myself in this life.
The reality of it all is,
It’s late and my mind races with
Unwelcomed clarity
I want to lose myself in a billowy white cloud,
Go to bed in a stupor
And succumb to another dreamless night.
Wake again tomorrow to the inescapable wonder
Of being me.

Yes, I know my words will never cure cancer or even feed a hungry child
But then, they are my words.
My words. So again,
I’m a poet, I proclaim.

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I hadn't written anything in a very long time, years perhaps, and just wanted to put something to paper. I struggled for a topic and couldn't come up with a thing, so that is what I wrote about. I hope you enjoy.