Poetry seems to be
An imagination
Leading to an artistic creation.
The truth is
Each poem possesses a soul
Which is really eternal.

We live and die
But our poems
Never lie or die.

Not in sight
not by day
Nor by night
Sinking ships
Sunlight figures
Turn grey and figureless
Lost in space
Lost in time
No rythym
Nor rhyme
Words lose meaning
Truth stinging
Emotions bleeding
Pooling into misunderstanding
Trying to piece it together straining
Looking down upon sanity
Blasphemous in my vanity
Double standards
Life's dander
Dont mean to banter
In a mental decanter
I recount my misdeeds
Still planting bad seeds
Untruths turn to lies
In a world of black flies

Days on days; my hometown harboured
concrete cradles cast for me.
Children growing tall like ships
alone and listing out to sea.