In the Business of Poets

Woke up today, with some help from my friends, waiting patiently for them to tell me I’m dead. A bottle of Jack, and the pills by my bed; the chasms between us and the child in my head.

Say you don’t get to choose whom you love, but this is free will at best, duress at the worst.

First loves are over-rated,
but mine was the verse.

I could wander,
always faithless and still have
a church,
be a third wheel and manage to lurch to
whatever destination I had in mind.

Drunk on my diatribes
is four AM, more alive then it’s
ever been.

High on the fumes of self-destruction, full bloom,
I embraced doom like I never
another human,
but every now and then,
I’m in the business of
poets, chasing what’s broken,
trying to make something
feel cleansed.

Try to find a friend who’s
not forty per
the whisky
of muses,
fifty-proof companion without
the morning after stench.

I’m in the business of
poets, but still on the picket
fucking fence, and
cliches are barbed wire,
but there’s absolutely no
red brick dream left
behind it.


5 thoughts on “In the Business of Poets

  1. Aren’t we all in the same boat! Poets wake up every day, knowing that they can fix the world, make it a better place. And everyday, I feel I failed . . . but with a little sleep, some rest, the right voice in my dreams, perhaps tomorrow. Enjoying your works!


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