Publish the poem and
hush the known poet
who knows no home
besides growing
tired of inspired
self deluded tricks
up the sleeve
and how rhythm
and rhyme weaves
down a river
gushing to the sea
and you as well
see the need
to write the line
of your mind not to define but
to remind us all
it is the call that makes us fall
short of who we are...
imagine, if we had taken the
road less traveled?
As we rage into the night
The poem would have at least graveled
into the heart and said, from
the start what led you to believe
in the thought, the rhyme, the page
when we were young
and distractions were fun
as well as never having to belong
as we were content in playing our hearts
out and figuring out
what it is all about...
am I to be happy?
after all the writing without fighting?
and the right to be known?
for the wife and the children
are home and the poet
well, he knows it well, there
never comes a time where the line
ends and there is not home
dear to defend; or pretend,
as we descend into the night.
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