We all tell woes Of shattered things.
Scattered dreams and pretty things.
All tangled up in endless string.
A string of letters,
Of words and lines
Mixed with emotions
and beauty and lies
Stories of girls broken inside,
Of boys with more blood to dry.
Of Secrets and lies hidden away
Of adults trying to make it just one more day.
Some are well told
Others a jumble of string
Yet in them all one uniting thing.
The audience.
Ah yes, those brave souls, willing to read.
To read the rambling of broken things.
Of flickering poets crying to be heard.
Of lost souls with pathways blurred.
So gather all your tangled string
And join in the cacophony of broken things
As we spin around this shattered ring
I ask you of one simple thing...
Do you smear yourself in ink and pain,
Just for the number of readers you'll gain?
Or is it an art to be admired?
Something to live on long after we expire?
No, if that's true I'm afraid
you've got it all twisted,
its not for the audience that poetry existed.
It's for the poet, tangled in string,
It gives them a chance to create the whole thing.
A world where no one chooses what goes
Save for the poet who truly knows.
The reason to write, To fight and bleed,
Is because we all long to be tangled in string
Why do you write?
What is the purpose?
