The Truth of Poetry

Some ask what Poetry is
All have different answers
At least one believes that Poetry is this

It is two or more things, really
Like a diamond, it has many facets,
Each offering their own perspective of the world

Is Poetry air?
Is it as necessary as breath,
Needed so life can exist?
Do life and Poetry have a mutual existence,
Intertwined so that if one perishes, the other follows?
Or is it death, preventing life, in that
Some are so devoted and passionate towards it,
There is no time for life to pan out?

Is Poetry rape?
Is it the exploitation of unwilling emotions,
Literature flowing at the cost of one’s own
Sanity?
Or perhaps, it is help for those weary,
A lover pure,
To grant its beloved reader a much-needed release.

Is Poetry coffee?
A nice jolt for the soul,
Rhythmic words to offer a burst of energy;
To lift up one’s day, maybe life.
But, then, could it not be cyanide?
Poison that destroys one’s heart and mind,
Threatening to depress the reader
Into an irreparable state…
The writer, also?

Is Poetry vomit?
An incongruous froth of emotions,
Violently discharged from one’s soul and pen to
Keep peace of mind,
So unchecked emotions do not overcome one?
Possibly, it is food, though;
A thick, steaming stew for one’s heart,
Providing fulfillment of goodness within one.

Most likely, however;
Poetry is at once all and none of these;
A myriad of chaotic, struggling faces
That also lend hands and wills to
Create perfect Balance
Poetry is love, hate, peace, war, joy, anguish,
Fulfillment, starvation, good and monstrous all
At once.
Poetry is both void and all-encompassing,
Thus,
We hate and love poetry, each our own
Types, our own
Emotions.

The Funniest Thing of All

The funny thing is,
A mortal’s love is a more tenuous concept than his next breath,
Even the word’s single syllable undulating from
His mouth in a tremulous gasp.
The funny thing is,
Only one who has loved has known the
True
Meaning of Irony
And these feel the weight of all transgressions’
Retribution.
The funny thing is,
People who are happiest have never been in
Love,
Or not the love common to so many mortals.
Pain is love’s companion, true to the end,
And the funny thing is,
The ends are so rarely benign.

The funny thing is,
So much is dressed up in a smile,
A cheap facsimile of mortality’s
Rewards.
When all has come to pass, all stories told, all songs sung, all tears wept
Mortal love will be revealed for the
LIE!
That it is.
The funny thing is,
Most will miss it all,
Enthralled in their foolish dreams and
Diseased conquests.
The cruel declarations of love,
And the malign good-night kisses.
The funny thing is,
They’re all blind.
Poor, cruel fools.


The funny thing is,
I know what you’re thinking.
That I’ve lost a screw
Or maybe the whole contraption that’s my
Mind
The funny thing is,
You’re second-guessing what you once believed,
Aren’t you?

You must understand that
The funny thing is,
I’ve played this game before,
When I was at a point in life
When I thought love was good.
The funny thing is,
It took me quite a few turns
Quite a few rolls, spins, calls,
To figure out what the game of
Mortal Love
Really is; and
The funny thing is,
It’s Death.

The funny thing is,
Is that it’s a constant game of pain,
A torturer’s nightmare,
Of moving and running, war and
Love
Is so stupid, among peerless mortals;
Surpassed in every way by every thing.
The funny thing is,
Few have realized this,
And none can act upon it.

The funny thing is,
Philosophers were morons,
Romanticism was a joke,
The Renaissance a gag.
The funny thing is,
No one can be right, either.

Romeo was better off dead.


The funny thing is,
Love has
Will
Never work for me, a constant suffering for
The rest of my days.
I know this heart and mind,
And will never try such again.
Love was meant for no comprehension or control,
For any mortal.
My heart has been broken and lost,
And the funny thing is,
I won’t miss it.

The funny thing is,
Love is really a hunkering, hungering, menacing monster,
A vampire awaiting to drain with avarice
The life of mortals.




And the funniest thing of all is,
I’m falling in Love again.

What Does it Profit a Man?

What does it profit a man who gains the world
Should he not gain love?
What purpose has he,
That he cannot fulfill life’s Purpose?
That he gains respect
That he gains wealth
Power
Symmetry
When all that is his kisses both horizons
But he was never to experience a kiss himself?
What does it profit a man-?
Though this is fallen verse
I have nothing
I dwell in nothing
Wealth
Power
Symmetry
Are not mine to be had
Fallacy is the kingdom I rule
With error as its currency
And tears its standard
As I raise its sordid banner:
A field of tears under a trampled rose
I cry out myself and ask
“What does it profit a man who gains the world-”
or nothing
“Should he never gain love?”
My profit is shame
I reap only frustration
I harvest only sorrow
The hope I sow is inevitably dead by nightfall
The levity I pretend is disclosed by dusk
And one must wonder to oneself:
What does it profit a man to gain the world
Should he not gain love?
I flail my impatience against the skin of this world
I fling my fear against its wind
Blowing past and across my weathered face
My hollow eyes,
My harrowed cheeks
I am without meaning.
It profits a man death.
What does it profit a man who gains the world
Should he never gain love?

It profits inexistence.
It profits listlessness.
It profits brokenness.
It profits a shattered heart.
What does it profit a man?
I did try.
What does it profit?
I failed.
What does?
I give up.
What?
No point left.
What does it?
I am dead.
What?
What?

What If?

What if I told you that happiness was everlasting?
That it was invulnerable, without fault;
That it could never be destroyed or
Belittled?
That happiness cannot be breached but at certain times,
When something is so irrevocably negative as it can upset it?
That Jefferson was wrong, and happiness need not be pursued?
That I am happy?
I’ll tell you what:
I’d be lying.
Don’t look at me that way, or cock your head like
A confused dog, a mongrel needing its throat cut in
Mercy.
Don’t look at me as a wellspring of knowledge in happiness, either;
For I am no sage on the subject-
Happiness and I are too far estranged, for that.
In fact, I’ve a question for you:
What, exactly, is happiness?
From my experience, it is a fleeting, unlikely thing
Something to be feared rather than embraced
Seeing as it’s just there to toy with you.
It’s an unwanted guest, mainly because it leaves
Right after- only after- building you up.
It smiles at you, only to reveal a grin of broken glass,
And broken hopes.
It is something to run from,
It’s fraudulent.
Happiness is not something in and of itself,
But a façade that depression might wear
To make sure you hit as hard as possible.
It is a monstrosity,
Gibbering insanities at you while you grasp at it and it grasps at you,
Ramming you down its insatiable throat as it
Chokes on its incongruity.
You can see a maddened cloud in its
Frozen, plastic eyes
And all it really wants to do is to
Gnash your flesh in its idiotic grin
And run your heart through its tearing jaws.
That’s all, you know.
It’s the elevator that falls from the top floor.
The bridge with that last crumbling support.
That ladder with that high, rusty rung.
That’s all I’m getting at.
Yeah. So.
What if I were to tell you that I wasn’t happy?
Would that shock you?
Would you weep for me?
Would you hug me?
Would you shrug?
Would you care?
What if?
And what if I were to tell you that I’m going to guess
Towards that last?