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inner inspiration [from a world that offers so much more]
it can mean so little, and in time mean nothing at all, but so much more when left unwritten
write from within... perhaps we've all been so delusional
and selfish, or it could be just a phase we're going through
or perhaps a knock to the head
has caused some permanent trauma to our... sense of reality
because it's apparent these arrogant poets
who stand tall on their pedestals
are blinded by their own divinity
with their heads stuck-up with the stars
and their fingers
fumbling for words to describe heaven and hell
when the truth is beyond them
beauty is a gift for a poet to see
and poetry is better left unsaid
on the graffitied walls of Brooklyn
and in an empty glass left sitting on the bar
while you smoke a joint with the bartender
in the narrow streets of Alphabet City
it's searching for Bukowski's grave
on a grassy hill in a Los Angeles cemetery
and the moment of silence that followed
it's a lost girl with a heart
tattooed on the back of her neck
left crying on the floor at Phoenix airport
and the beauty you let walk away with a smile in Dubai
another flower you left unpicked and unbroken
poetry is a box of memories you trawled through last weekend
flicking through pages of poems you wrote in your teens
it's the smile on your face
when you found photos of your younger sister
caught between the pages
pictures of her drawing with graphite on the bedroom floor
it's throwing out your old poems
pages written for an unglorified burial
absent of tears and flames
Inspired by this thread: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/suggestions/read/8511/#319937
write from within... perhaps we've all been so delusional
and selfish, or it could be just a phase we're going through
or perhaps a knock to the head
has caused some permanent trauma to our... sense of reality
because it's apparent these arrogant poets
who stand tall on their pedestals
are blinded by their own divinity
with their heads stuck-up with the stars
and their fingers
fumbling for words to describe heaven and hell
when the truth is beyond them
beauty is a gift for a poet to see
and poetry is better left unsaid
on the graffitied walls of Brooklyn
and in an empty glass left sitting on the bar
while you smoke a joint with the bartender
in the narrow streets of Alphabet City
it's searching for Bukowski's grave
on a grassy hill in a Los Angeles cemetery
and the moment of silence that followed
it's a lost girl with a heart
tattooed on the back of her neck
left crying on the floor at Phoenix airport
and the beauty you let walk away with a smile in Dubai
another flower you left unpicked and unbroken
poetry is a box of memories you trawled through last weekend
flicking through pages of poems you wrote in your teens
it's the smile on your face
when you found photos of your younger sister
caught between the pages
pictures of her drawing with graphite on the bedroom floor
it's throwing out your old poems
pages written for an unglorified burial
absent of tears and flames
Inspired by this thread: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/suggestions/read/8511/#319937
Published 28th Oct 2015
| Edited 14th Mar 2016
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 9
reading list entries 5
comments 17
reads 1180
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
28th Oct 2015 8:23pm
awesome scribe, not entirely sure if I agree with its sentiments - most poetry is lost, lost on readers who can't or won't understand - lost because it is never published or read by the masses - lost as a result of a computer malfunction - lost for many and varied reasons
see! you really got me thinking and that is evidence of great poetry :-)
see! you really got me thinking and that is evidence of great poetry :-)
Perhaps as I get older the less sentimental I become. Thanks heaps for dropping by Mr Macleod, I always enjoy and appreciate reading your thoughts.
Anonymous
28th Oct 2015 9:07pm
I've been riding a Bukowski wave for the last week, and this thought process reminds me a lot of his style. I don't want to call it a poem, because I think that adds insult to the spirit of the piece, but I love the introspection here. Fabulous no bullshit write, and I am a fan of that... even if I am one of these head-stuck-up-in-the-stars types for a lot of reasons these days. Self proclaimed though so I don't really give a crap. lol
Thanks for the read.
Thanks for the read.
Oh, the irony I broke my thoughts up into stanzas and declared this poem be unwritten... there's been a few edits since I posted the poem to adjust the protagonist's voice and context, hopefully making the poem less of an attack on poets and more of an observation of oneself. Thanks heaps Missy for your kind words in your no bullshit way. ;)
29th Oct 2015 00:06am
Wow you just sauntered right back into my list, my friend! <3 This was perfect.
If this poem has sauntered it's way into your reading list, then I'm privileged and it will be a reading list add I'll never forget, mysterious lady.
29th Oct 2015 10:23pm
29th Oct 2015 3:03am
The truth is I hold a lot of good memories, brotha. It's great to see you're still kicking... ass. ;)
decent write, man. welcome back
I like the concept. your thoughts hold much logic and run nicely paced through their stanzas. the first stanza appears to have one or two places which cause pause to continuity which may be detrimental to the overall flow of the stanza. I would say lines 4 and 5 hold the culprits
I would suggest 'those arrogant poets' and further suggest continuing with ' who stand on their pedestals' rather than have standing. and switch fumbling to fumble
could probably do with a couple of or's in the second stanza, or some such word which gives continuity while separating the different thoughts
don't need no ' <- in its
all in, decent write, easy read
fair play
I like the concept. your thoughts hold much logic and run nicely paced through their stanzas. the first stanza appears to have one or two places which cause pause to continuity which may be detrimental to the overall flow of the stanza. I would say lines 4 and 5 hold the culprits
I would suggest 'those arrogant poets' and further suggest continuing with ' who stand on their pedestals' rather than have standing. and switch fumbling to fumble
could probably do with a couple of or's in the second stanza, or some such word which gives continuity while separating the different thoughts
don't need no ' <- in its
all in, decent write, easy read
fair play
Thanks for the great feedback, Craic. I've made a lot of changes to the first stanza since posting, along with your excellent suggestions, and now, I think I'm happy with it. Thanks heaps!
29th Oct 2015 9:11pm
welcome back! What a wonderfully honest peace. We are so conditioned to define everything we see or "to understand", and you just simply acknowledge. I agree with your sentiments completely. Instead of just capturing inspiration for your you just let it be, and you have created what many people pull their hair out to write with that kind of clarity.
I was so stoked to read your comment, Matt. I think you summed it up perfectly in three words... Let it be.
Thanks for the list add and great feedback.
Thanks for the list add and great feedback.
4th Nov 2015 2:22am
there are many poets, but so little poetry; it was Bukowski who made us aware of that, since we ourselves are blinded by our own mediocrity.
it's very good non-poetry, but would also stand up well as a poem...
it's very good non-poetry, but would also stand up well as a poem...
7th Jan 2016 2:09am
That's one of my favourite quotes. I was once so arrogant to let my pride blind me of the greater arrogance engrained in the literary world, now, I only feel pity for those that raise poetry so high above the altar.
We must live first and then maybe we write, but we should never write too seriously.
Thanks for your comment, Mr Feddeler.
We must live first and then maybe we write, but we should never write too seriously.
Thanks for your comment, Mr Feddeler.
7th Nov 2015 9:41pm
7th Jan 2016 2:13am
You're too kind, whale. This was an easy and sobering write, not a drop of bourbon was spilled, it just simply happened out of laziness, and not so much poetics. Thank you once again.
