I was a poet man in meltdown,
borderline to bloody breakdown,
I ‘d lost my love and lost control;
I’d bottomed out inside black hole.
I was stressed; I‘d sought sedation,
sick of social situation.
Life had lost all rhyme and reason
in that sodding silly season.
Took to drink, like fish to water,
married to the devil’s daughter.
Taught; I was an educator,
had to be a gladiator
in that school for feral creatures
where they tortured timid teachers.
I was jaded, just dog-tired,
out to lunch and uninspired.
Grew a spine when true love touched me,
born again, was breathing beauty.
Turned myself like worm in fable:
shaky sap to soldier stable.
Still a poet, though I doubt it
often; talent, I’m without it.
Nonetheless, I’m still a writer:
pen’s the weapon for a fighter!
-
Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 19th, 2021 06:04
- Comment from author about the poem: for fighters
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 39
Offline)
Comments2
That last line says it all Kevin - whatever life throws at us we can as poets pick up a pen and allow fighting words to flow.
Thanks, Kay, for your encouragement.
May that pen never cease to write Kevin.
Andy
Thanks Andy
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