Still Writing Poem by GRANT FRASER

poet asks me, yesterday,
if I still write poetry?

is this poetry...if it is,
I don't know...

cause I started doing photos,

anything that is a record - I suppose...

I used to love cassettes,
recording my voice,
saying things out loud,

or wanted to keep some part
of me, that once existed,

I imagine that words once
served me better, than now,

you are too bitter, said the coach,

maybe?

inside out, even back to front,
like meaning got twisted around me,
a suit of word thorns,

try and live out, what it is you wanted
to say,

I get it!

I see what it is to become things,

black as coal, shinier than a precious gem,

gagged in the frozen drama of everyday time,

I live ahead of every action,
carry out what it is I need to do,

and avoid others, postpone my own demise...