Empty Cup

Hold back the indecent hand 

That would fling the door open

On Modesty undressing in a

Smoky backroom of your mind. 

Leap from your old, dusty platform,

Fly, and feel the air of the oncoming

Train carrying the weary and 

Downtrodden masses.

 

Silence your bleeding pen that would

Soil every page with its own plight: 

How it’s squeezed at the neck, and 

How it’s always being pushed around. 

Be the empty cup that holds

The world and the heavens above 

In a drop of water, and quench the 

Thirst of some forsaken son or daughter.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I feel the poet sitting at his or her desk...with the words about to flow...the pen ready to bleed and the poet not sure what kind of emotion will be seen when the mind is undressed by the bleed.
really creative write,
j.

[Laz K.]

Thank you, j, for reading and commenting. I was perusing poems on this site, and it struck me how most of what people write about is "narrow" personal issues. (I'm guilty of it, too, of course.) Poetry can bemore, though: something that is a kind of panacea, something with a broader scope than "I." If it's not that, than what we have is just myriad voices recounting their private woes - which is a good (and necessary) starting point, but a painter cannot just paint self-portraits all the time. :)