cursed creature

The true poet
in the truest sense
is a truly cursed
and tortured creature.

Any fool
that knows some fool
who calls him
or herself
a poet
knows.

Ask anyone
that knows
me.

The sheer number
of hours
spent alone
in a small room
with nothing but an erection
my loneliness and regrets
and a million words
rattling around
inside my brain
have wrought
a terrible price.

The desolation
is so overwhelming
that sometimes
it almost
makes sense.

The pain
becomes so pervasive
that at times
when it is momentarily
not there
it feels as if
I am naked
to the wind.

The dread
has been with me
for so long
it has become
my best friend.

The madness
has become
my flesh
and the terror
my home
filled with antiquities
and memories
and shadows.

I do it all right
and it goes all wrong.

I try too much
and it’s too much.

I don’t try enough
and I fail
for lack of effort.

Damned if you do
and catch 22
for I usually feel
completely screwed
and then
I end up rhyming
in my poems.

Gone crazy,
all the way
around the bend
is what I want
the sign
on my door
to say
so they’ll know
they were right
when they wondered
that something was wrong
with me.

I always did
and now
I am dealing
with the hand
scattered about
the floor
and not even all the cards
are here.