The Poet's PoemA Poem by The Scholar A poet speaking to Poetry. Stabbed for a poem, murdered for a rhyme, You thought you had me but time was mine, I ran away with my dried-up fountain pen. You're the only friend of an ancient art, You took my soul and you stole my heart, You played your magic like it was a number. I know you'll find me wherever I run, You'll force my hand 'til my fingers numb, There's no escape your clutches or charisma. Insane without you, you twisted my will, I tried to be master, I'd drunk my fill, You refilled my glass, shoved me back on the chair. My knuckles were white, my hands only shook, You sat on my lap, asked for a hook, I gave you one because I had no answer. I remained on that chair an aeon or two, Creating a masterpiece for you, The finished product was my magnum opus. Yet I had become old when I looked in, In the glass a corpse where I had been, You kidnapped my youth like a thief in the night. I would have lain my life down on my desk, To give any word you asked for next, Your charms had rescued me from reality. Now I give you one word you asked for not, My word is this: I will not be caught In your illusions to veil me from the world. I tried to leave you and promptly went mad, I returned, you tied me to my bed Of airy white immersed in inky smudges. Thus, this now be my compromise to thee, Half my soul be yours and half be me, So here I go, I'm off to conquer the world. © 2012 The ScholarAuthor's Note
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The ScholarEsco., CAAbout“We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are MEMBERS OF THE HUMAN RACE. And the human race is filled with PASSION. And medicine, law, business, engi.. more..Writing
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