I had a beautiful mind.
Now sometimes,
I wait in my car;
Like I'll move on
To bigger and better things
Eventually.
I want to listen to screaming music
Instead of beautiful operatic
Like a passion
Is trying to call out my name
In some dying way.
It's holding on to me,
But slipping far away.
I want to write poetry,
But I can no longer think freely.
I want to find reality
Within a dream.
I would need no thesaurus
In that simplicity.
And I never liked Taurus
For their stability;
But I desire it daily.
Hypocritically,
I free verse my insecurities.
You see,
I don't write with structure anymore
And I can't remember
Much about Edgar Allen Poe
Other than his woe;
Or Emily Dickinson
Other than
She had no kids.
And I tried like them,
To find
The best lines
To describe
The imperfections of life
By trying to write perfect.
But it's simply ironic.
So now I just say, "Fuck it!"
Then free verse the shit out of it.
But Bukowski,
He always expressed so
Beautifully
His self endured misery;
But he was just an alcoholic
With too much time on his hands.
Like me,
Human,
And just wanting to make a small
And insignificant impact.
He too
Free Versed the shit out of it.
But he talked of Nietzche
And Schopenhauer
Like he knew them personally.
And I get that.
You connect so thoroughly
To a piece of work
That you feel the author's
Very pain
And you become immersed.
Doesn't matter how much they
Free Versed.
8/24/18
©lunarmarie
L