hash Marks In The Cavern Of My Soul.

 

Hash Marks In The Cavern Of My Soul.

 

 

Editors slash at me,
their razor sharp rejections,
cut pink slips in my soul.

 
I have wallpapered my studio
with their displeasure.
deadlines kill me,
the clock hands swing in
a wide pendulum,
cutting my inspiration
into confetti words.


14 year old experts critique me
as if the years of war
pain and lost love
are the diction of fiction,
They have not yet lived
the sorrow draped in long
black streamers of ink
on crumpled balls of
what's the use.


Newspapers remove
the meat of the matter
lest it offend,
reproducing my rants
into thinner pulp
then the wafer thin
paper they are printed on.

 
Yet still I write,
for there is a spark,
a small ember burning,
igniting hearts
to the flames of

passion poured.


thoughts liquefied into
ink that sears the hearts
of those who truly want change,
and cannot voice their needs.


Too often I read

to space cadets,
sipping cappuccinos and gazing
at the fly specked windows
as my words sail into the ozone
and miss the ears clogged with
IPod's and cell phones.


it is tough to be a poet
in the twenty first century,
competing with

electronic wonders,
and refrigerator magnets
that anyone can form into
a pseudo poem.

But the soul cries on,
the words bleed

enunciation's from my lips,
fingers pound out a menagerie
of moments captured
at the instant of awareness,
only to languish in

journals of dismay.


perhaps I should

have them all
buried with me in

an airtight chamber,
so that future generations

can uncover historic chronicles,
then all those bored with

electronic blips and  chips,
can learn to read again,

by a stream
in a meadow,

under the shade
of simpler times.

 

 

 

 

 

©-MFB III

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pbwriterchick 6 years ago

I think that's a great idea... all writers should be buried with their work. :)

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