What To Do... Poem by GRANT FRASER

I start thinking about
real poems,
and that's pretty much
it, before coffee,
some mental kickstart!

colour, truth,
blood drops hot as coal,
sweat that stings
the cold screen,

the dream...
oh! yes, ten billion
tons of scenes that come
my way, daily,

even though my
working clothes
look dishevelled and dirty,

I'm thinking
and dying,
then reborn again,
when a door shuts so hard

I startle!

and I'm not really
scared, just frightened
by refusal,
and confused by
the silence up out in space,

and I know I am
a planet too,
moving somewhat slow
in the drizzle of Castlehill,

lamenting that words
if I don't abuse them,
will see it fit, to mean to me,
more than they ever did,

and my body, it's a word,
and that even while dying,
is a burning word to be true,
dont lie, I always try to mean it...