Ego of a Poet

The young poets claw
At walls of discontent
Digging for awe
When only we'll vent

The older poets
Lay back on the thrones
Dipping their cigars in brandy to smoke it
Many assembled, all alone

The young look for "what could"
The old look for "what was"
The scolders look for "what should"
And the revolutionary make words out of a buzz

All granted with skill
All writing fast
All falling ill
All wearing a cast

"I don't like this" One did say
"It makes me sick" The other replied
"I don't want to own the day"
"I don't want the golden stick"

"They don't fit my mold" Each old poet says
"They're just like me" Each young poet whispers
But they are not what you suggest
They are not just another contender

They're something different
Breaking the mind
Breaking the spirit
How did they ever find?

"We are not real
My friends we come,
To make no deals,
We are only all, contained in all of one"

"Old poets of the high,
Hide under your thrones,
Young poets stay out of the sky,
Find what is rightfully your own."

"Open your eyes,
And tell me now what do you see,
Hide it not under code and lies,
Tell me the truth, I will know, because you are me."

"Eat out the earth,
From your dead imagination infested graves,
Describe to me, the dirt,
That fills your brain with haze"

"I am not a glimpse,
At another's life,
I am your chance,
To latch on out of strife"

"A thought
Merely all I'll ever be
An abstract thought,
Presented in you, from thee."

"Partake no longer
In tolling of bells,
Don't let it make you stronger,
Make it your hell"

"Please, please, listen to my plea
I am begging
See the dirt on my knees,
Listen to what I am telling..."

"Stop!" The eldest poet shouts,
All quiet,
Except the feet of a mouse,
And with a voice, triumphant,

The king poet speaks:
"What we're doing,
What we see,
What I'm choosing,
Is all we'll ever be"

The thoughts in a rage,
Take back to his mind
"Break us free from this cage!
Do not let us be confined!"

The kings grips his head
Trying to ignore
The thoughts implode and he feels brain dead,
So he runs for the door

A mighty bang.

The young poets cease their digging
The old poets fall to the floor
The thoughts, yes they will be winning
Right before the king opens the door

A dam bursts
And the thoughts pour
The king thinks nothing could be worse
Until it starts to flood the floor

The king tries
To get them back in sync
But he cannot appease their cries
In laughter and meek

They're so close to the surface
With one last attempt,
The king tries to diverge this
But this is not the end

The poet's mouth opens,
And the words flow out
Each thought a priceless token,
Each loudly crying out

The king drowns
In the confusion
Stored back in the mind
Lost in illusion

The young poet thoughts
Rest meekly on the lines
The old poet thoughts
Serve as the vine

A seed begins to bloom
And the feelings and thoughts drip out
The mind washer is laid in a tomb
And the abstract thoughts continue to fly out

"We made it,"
One word calls to the other,
"We made it."
One quiet bird carries to another

The king is dead
Not to be long lived
But there's more in the head
Though not yet bid

The ego lives on
Repeated,
Redrawn
Defeated,

But the abstract thoughts,
Let them live on.

Word by word,
The contents from the dam still spew
A break from the herd,
And a mind like new

The ego pours out,
The thoughts run about.
The work is not nearly done,
This is only all, all only in one.