To be a poet

Is this what it is to be a poet
Plagued with doubts and fears?
Consistently caught by “Who am I?”
Kept awake by “Why am I here?”

These days I feel so waver-y
Like the pattern the beach sand contains.
My heart is fluttery, fickle, abrupt
As the tears spill and fall down my face.


What! What is this
What an odd combination
to feel like one’s blood is flaming
But also as if it’s dead?

You live inside me
You hollow the sickness from my bones. I will hold on to you, Star-maker, do not leave inside this cold.

I cannot stop running, yet am so very still
Something is wrong, I am sick, I am ill

Music cannot chase away the tar that is consuming all my blood
I sing like a jester but my eyes are growing dimmer
I am torn apart by the cavernous dark,
And I cannot explain away the echoes that roost inside my heart.

Mid-rhyme, suddenly,
Fancy words desert me
And I crumble like a child.

Poker chips

Once I found long words to sculpt
To morph the way I felt;
Now I am brevity
An anxiety shorter than breath,
A love lost in tumultuous age
Tears shed- always in yesterday.

Poker chips are in the sky
Flung there when the losers cry
Poker chips, broken in
The stars and moon will play again.

Never again,
Will I vow
Baited on by intoxication
A churning inside caused by
Infantile infatuation.

My words

I will dance alone until the stars break even with the moon.