Our pens are envenomed,
the ink seeps through our skin
and when we write, it's poisoned...
there is no beauty in words...
just sin.
Enlightened, we convince ourselves,
as the fluids interchange,
our stock becomes indigo
how easy to exchange.
Hypocrites and imposters
we're irrationally consigned,
to lies, and self-promotion
and wild imaginings.
Image becomes the meaning
The seeming becomes the lie
and the would-be praises the sinner
to which our guilt clings.
Our keyboards are toxic
our venal fingers, corrupt.
And when we type, its noxious...
there is no truth in words...
there's nothing there but sin.
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Comments
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Trumpery!
and for sure a poem about writing from the very personal perspective of Yem. I do suppose though that your statement ... "there is no truth in words" will eventually add up to all that you say at anytime and anyplace, leaving the intent listener (or reader) to believe that all is useless bunk and to just keep filling these little comment squares with much of the same sin you speak of.
Guilt is clinging now like old chewing gum to my soul's sole and I'm feeling rather like a fish out of water!
j
y
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I think there are a slew of underlying reasons why poets write, each having their own assortment. What your speaker seems to be saying here is that it's easy to get caught up in the praise factory and like the attention for the images we can create and portray in words. It can be a self-serving pursuit if we sell out and lose sight of who we really are.
Okay, I'm not really a pixie. There I said it.
Interesting perspective here. You were thinking again, weren't you? lol
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Ah, this poet has a one-sided mirror
reflecting only dismal dark. The images
and the cynicism drape the page in
intellectual black.
Methinks he should hie himself to MacDonald's
and purchase a Happy Meal!
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