don't start telling
us your actually still
alive and well...
while clinging to the raft
as I am!
as a waft of spirit infiltrates
let mankind organise destruction
and no end,
for revival requires
cut yourself out
of the present fixture,
with very big scissors
that scare the likes,
something that can limit
all space and eternity!
for the meaning of language
is to embellish so acutely,
that everyday normality
should swing back and eat you,
is my literal pillow,
to rest the weary distracted
poet longing for a quill,
or even a basic scribble
to motivate a lack of willpower,
everything's been used!
these old shoes I'm wearng
fell off old poets feet,
and it's already ruined...
and me and you
what are we to do,
invent some newfangled others?
lets walk barefoot - he said,
in fact lets strip completely!
Oh! I wouldn't do that,
the body is always at war with itself,
while thought explodes
in the hidden infirmaries
of our minds...
take it to a surgery,
see a doctor,
the mind is so ill,
because of all we think
and do not contest,
'I'll refer you to someone,
your not feeling dangerous
are you? '
yeah! all my life,
words just want to break
or take me over...
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Comments about this poem (Struggle Modern by GRANT FRASER )
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
(4 February 1900 – 11 April 1977)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
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