Perhaps my words will no body honor,
It's fine ,
It will lie in the dust and grass forgotten,
Words which held no weight to no one ,
Perhaps like all poets ,
I was meant a catastrophe,
It's rather true I've never read ,
A poet or artist be happy , be happy
Perhaps that is why I believe,
Poets are rather misunderstood,
And when they break they're like black holes,
Cuz they're born of stardust in their bones,
I'd rather shun the marketing ,
Of a poet's feelings or their auction of things,
Why is it that they lived in agony,
And when they die they're named a priceless thing,
Perhaps this is how sylvia felt,
A lone black rose in a world of red ones ,
Desperately calling out ,
Asking If she is not alone,
If someone somewhere could get what she's done ,
Like sitting alone on a river bank ,
Heavy with the curses of your heart,
We're not cats ,
But we've got nine lives ,
So we die in each one before it even starts,
And are born again in New proses,
Working out another heartache,
So it sells in the markets rather than it being hidden,
Our feelings on sale like grocery or cakes,
And it goes it goes like the silence of Jews,
And it feels like blue eyes crushing my heart,
Stunned in the silence of barbed wires ,
And I'm afraid we've been cursed with our art,
I'm afraid we're all cursed to die ,
Because we're poet's, you see that's why,
I'm afraid, that's why,
When some evening I won't return home ,
What will be of my golden dog,
Will they sell him at auctions too,
His heart, his smile and his bones,
Will they auction his loyalty too?
Will they write how he sat waiting on the front door,
For 3 days for many hours until the master was long gone,
I wonder , I wonder, I wonder.
-ksh
