Kevin Michael Bloor

Poet of Pain

I’m not the kind of poet people read.
My poems, I don’t pen, I simply bleed.
My words won’t turn to ink or rest as rhyme.
They’re trapped inside, and I don’t have the time

to sit composing ‘neath a garret roof.
I’m sociable, not saint who sits aloof.
Besides, a broken heart’s a private hell,
a tragic tale too terrible to tell.

So, I won’t wear upon these tattered sleeves
a heart that ghost of girl who’s gone still grieves.
I’d rather bare for you a braver face,
composed and calm, so sorrow you won’t trace.

But if I were to pour upon this page
my words, set free from capture in this cage.
If paper, I allowed my words to kiss,
I suppose my rhymes would read like this!