Part the World

16.Condition

*Inspired by Robert Frost's quote "To be a poet is a condition, not a profession."

if anyone else tries to perform that delicate thing that sheds our desires, with our printed words for hire. that are clouded but yesterdays wanderings and tomorrows calls for it to be free. in boundaries, we created with a fractured paper, spilled words- so, so many.

if it calls for things we knew we couldn't understand, and splits like a flytrap, snapping in when the feathers we throw land, on its velvet surface. we should be proud of the sickening sounds that ring out in us, calling for confusion. without the longest thread of elegance, that says 'this is no profession.' 

with lilac air, from our lips of cherry red chapstick, and mirages surrounding the walls. if it could have, it would have, wrecked our minds and hearts, with chipped porcelain, and silver-ish needles. that it doesn't let us sit at a desk with the keys resting underneath our falling fingers as the words form saying 'this is your job-you do it.'

back again the things we said with a ray of thought, that wasn't understood by most. and ignored by many, most, all. and the evening poetic license, that is surprising if we don't get things that simple. or difficult.

and in our shingled house, home, there are always conditions. and long papers that state them, as if you could rip a paper so suddenly it wouldn't apply. as if things work like that, not as if this was a masquerade, where these words established the same thing, life and air.

in fact, that was what even tainted our mischief as if we still cared. though thoughts were simple and lives weren't that intricate, thought strange to be an intricacy. though things tore and wore, and rusted, and sprained, and snapped. and they called to us 'what is your ailment.'

and not all concerned, with plastic lives that graced us, and golden lies that changed us. and trapped, almost, with breakable things, but untraceable things. thereafter we called out words, in elegance, and to be spontaneous. things might have been interesting, of course, we thought they were. let's not forget that the dictionary hated us.

with people who were taller, and stronger, than the plays we put on at a pace, all of course leading to one thing, as it is forgotten but connected. connection, slightly, like sugary pies; apple; peach; key-lime. but not quite as strong or joyful or meaningful, with the things flowing like fast ravines out our ears and into our throat. down the way and out a way away-not far, we don't float in lakes, and ravines hardly hold us.

we hadn't been shocked when our heads told us otherwise. nor had we flinched when reality took a hard hit, in return for what he surmised. we haven't a profession, only a condition, and that, is absolutely no job at all.