A Poet Writes on Poetry

This is the merging of myself
in my various parts,
the reflection of a face
distorted by smoke and mirrors.


There is yearning in my voice,
a need to escape,
a desire for passage
into another realm of reality
by unfolding ideas.


I write of the body and the soul,
of the delight of heaven
and the tortures of hell.


I scribe the virtues
and vices of humanity;
the goodness of us,
and the evil too.


At times I listen more than speak,
hear the echoes of nature,
the sounds of the spirits.


I translate emotions into rhyme,
sentiments into script.


I deprecate to
unconsciously seek praise;
I boast to encourage critique.


I write of history,
mine mostly
how lovers have loved me
and wronged me
in the next verse.


I strip myself
for the world to examine;
I implicate like an investigator.


I breathe words like oxygen-
inhaling another's art
and exhaling my own.


Life is a journey
and we travel together,
stopping when we observe someone
bleeding on the sidewalk,
we judge and move on.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Inspired by: Walk Whitman's "Song of Myself"

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