It's not that I want to.

It’s not that I want to
It just that I must
Write the unwritten
That lay gathering dust
In my head’s spiral carpet
Forgotten crumpled they lay.
Till the silence of others
Tell me I’ve something to say.
It’s not profound,
pretentious or smart
It’s poetic plainness
thats not even art.
But in all the rubble
Theres a nugget or two
Or a grain of comfort
That’s just made for you.
Theirs a laugh when you need one
Pain, sorrow and tears
And a drop of courage
When your frozen with fears.
Theres lines there for lovers
For those jilted and alone
For the misers and Scrooges
With hearts made of stone .
For the the Tinker, the Taylor
The Soldier and Spy
Those resigned to their comforts
Blind to the reasons why
Theres injustice, war, poverty, rape
That cesspit of evil that with
greed and violence shape.

One for the wise man ,
one for the fool
One for the alcoholic
That sits on the stool
pontificating to all
How the world should be run
With military precision
Devoid of all fun
While he swigs on his bottle
Causes mayhem at home
Yet his moment, Pompeii like
Is preserved in a poem.
There’s dark truths and secrets
Riddles and rhymes
Rules and regulations
And poetic crimes
I’ve broken them all
Iam still doing time
Still digging a tunnel
Through words I must mine .
I throw away many
That aren’t just right
The rest are like children
Who wake me at night
Goading and coaxing me
With my muse in full cry
To commit them to paper
Before they wither and die.

A poet is tortured by words
Untold stories to tell
Unveiled in a fanfare of feelings
Of his own little hell.
He lives like a church mouse
On crumbs of the host
As he aims his arrows
Towards those he loves most .
There painted in poetry,
a truth warts and all
The sauce of their story
Boiled , reduced ‘til it’s small.
In the verse of a poem its
Essence is spilled
The outcome they hate
But I am personally thrilled.
It’s this contrast of conflict
It’s paradoxical satire on hate
That sends the critics to a frenzy
And the intellectual to debate
The merits and meanings
The structures of its form
Was I guilty or innocent
In causing such harm.
For such is the power
Of a poem that It ignites
feeling it’s words are pure Poison
while others pure unbridled delight.
Don’t think too much when writing
Write What flows from your head
And put this poetic nonsense
Finally to bed.

Good night.

It's not that I want to.

timbuckley

Muckross Killarney, Ireland

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