What if I don’t want to write about the Simple Things?
What if my Muse doesn’t talk about the fields of grain
Or the perfect romance, or who know what else they talk about now.
There’s those people with record deals and they talk about how miserable they are in love.
What if I don’t want to write about that?
What if I want to write about an eagle soaring over the castle I never had,
Or what if I want to write about everything Lancelot knew about Guinevere,
Or what if I want to climb down the ladder of the subconscious and
Tear apart my soul for each and every one of you to see,
What if I am just me?
What if I want to write about my friend who left me
And two seconds later my love is like the sea…
But not like the sea expansive and beautiful, tranquil, blue maiden,
but instead the sea the Mistress of so many devils flaring in every color of doom
threatening to swallow anyone that enters her path.
Love is like the sea may be cliche but what if the sea rips out your throat.
I am not here to say that love isn’t hope,
That love is a nightmare that I always want to escape
But can’t because I am drowning.
I am come to say that Sometimes, I think so.
I am come to say that while love is sometimes like the sea on a calm summer’s day
Sometimes it eats through your heart like a vampire hidden away in the deeps.
And even if sometimes Notre Dame is a grand Cathedral and it takes your breath away,
Sometimes it suffocates you, and makes you want to cry,
And sometimes when you want to cry it chokes you up
And when it chokes you up, you gasp for air, and gasp and gasp
And when you come up for air you brand yourself a heathen
Because what was once in there was greatness.
What if the roses in the field i see are sometimes blood mongers
And sometimes a breath hardly breathed?
What if I talk abot my writing as if it is about to devour me,
And in the next moment I beg for it to return?
Does this make me a glutton for abuse?
I refuse to believe that and instead beg for every moment
Of this imaginary life that refuses to leave and I ask you to whisper
That everything is going to be ok
That even if Modern Poetry is About the Simple Things,
You will not leave me.