The Washed Up Poet

I’m a poet, at least . . I want to be.
Lying under this maple tree,
I think, and think, and think,
Grasping through the air for inspiration,
Like a man searching for hands to hold on to.
All the while, curses stream through my lips
Like lighter fluid, fueling the fire of my bad position.
Yet, I’m supposed to be a man of intuition . .

You know?

People catch my eye on the streets
And expect a show to gym shoe beats.
To them, it’s merely architecture of English;
Bending words around a foundation of metaphors -
A tiny cottage of frail boards of wood,
That blows away from the littlest of breezes.

No, poetry is more than that . .
Poetry is an art; a painting of black ink
Created by the very thoughts I think.
Yet, I lie under this tree with an empty canvas,
That laughs and smiles at my tortured strain
Until, like inky drips of poetic rain,
I find my way and write what I’ve been harboring
Within. It takes time I guess . .
It’s an artistic game of competitive chess;
With your opponent being the very ideas that swim
In midair, the very same you’ve been grasping for.

If I’ll ever win this game, I’ll have to wait to know it
Until then, I’ll lie here as a washed up poet.