Why I Write, Part x+25: Wannabe

I want to be
In poetry,
Not so much as
A business,
But to give words
Force with timed finesse

I want to be
A little muse-y,
Both to inspire
and to demand
Creative works
From now-changed hands.

I want to be
An intermediary,
One who knows
The Muse's call,
Who frees the muse
Within us all.

I don't need to be remembered,
Just noticed while I'm there.

Why, Again?

Why do they need a hundred pop songs
To say the same thing, such a bore,
And why do all my poems
Seem to say so little more?

Why is coffee the only thing I can smell?
No, really, what the hell?
Why does the wind blow?
Why does the grass grow?
Why are questions the answers I best know?

Why is she completely open
In such an airy way?
Why does it have to feel so wrong
To have something more to say?

When the question could offend,
Why must I always ask her?
Why does the weekend leave so fast,
But my foot stay in my mouth forever?

Wet Paint

Our young love is like wet paint:
Always tacky, always sticky.
It colors every one or thing around it,
Yet washes off so easily.

To Buy, To Die

A louse, a mouse,
A loon, a goose:
A white man is not hung, and yet
He wears a noose.

To buy, to die,
To bow, to be:
Can anyone be so confined
and Still be free?

Crying Clown (A "poem-in-dialog")

"How could she do that?  I hate her!  I'll get her!
I'll make her rue the day she left, and then forget her."

"Why don't you write that on a page;
Let fire seal that letter.
If she can't see how bad you're hurt,
Wouldn't that be better?"

"Be half a man and take this lying down?
Be king of wimps, with two horns for a crown?
Be nothing but a tear-stained, crying clown?
Forget all that, I'm taking her ass down."

"What gives, man?  Are you playing?"

"Have you listened to a word I'm saying?

I've tried so hard to tell.
Guess I'll have to yell now!
I'm hunting with my hounds of hell,
Out of patience, out for blood now."

"You can't move forward stuck on her.
You can only lose, then.
Your hounds, the beast called anger,
They stay because you feed them."

Cycle of Life

Someone's daughter
Doesn't see
What I see in her.

The key to building confidence
Is to hammer together evidence:
Counter beauty's violent construct
With words which in its walls I struck.

Of mouths and minds, and how they dance,
Of movement's forms that me entrance
Of seas' great depths within her eyes
(and other poets' honest lies),

Or why I love her.
Once she knows,
Then she goes.
I'll find another.