Morbid Poetry

Writing

If you write
You are a writer
It's as simple as that
But I disagree
You can be a writer
Or a poet
Or both
If you're me.

Messy desks and messy thoughts
Or
Blank stares and blank paper.
Notes everywhere
Never finding the right words
But feeling your heart tear
As you capture
For just a second
Your intent

We're trying
To make flowers bloom
In the heaviest of storms
To make lightning
Beautiful
No matter how fright'ning
The beauty.

We see beauty
In the dark
In the lazy trail of
Smoke across the night
And we see heartbreak
In the light
Where masks are worn
To hide what happened that night.

Stars
Are endless
Constellations
Are not.
I may not be able
To point out Orion's Belt
But I can play
Connect the dots
And spell out
Fuck you.

A dizzying array
Of beauty and pain
That is the storm
Of life
And I can love the
Needles of rain
In my face
As the wind screams like
A banshee
Screams of death and darkness
And I can love the
Compassion of the hands
Trying to plant flowers
That will withstand
The storm
As the porch light flickers
And lightning
Ghosts across my skin.

To write
You will find
Is no less than grace
And no more than sin.