Truth Is Poetry

 

My Life’s Work                                       Aug. 16 2008

By: Craig A. M. Goines

                  

I struggle, I fear, I care just a little too much.

I cry when I’m in pain!

Soft spoken when I’m depressed.

I’m just like you.

Living in the day, and resting at night.

 

I’m a popular outcast, yet dead to the world.

I don’t really want to write, but it’s embedded in my soul.

Like if I stop writing now then I won’t grow to be old.

They took my pencil, pen and put me in a padded room.

Writing is all I got and it helps me get by.

Like drinking for you or drugs for them.

Some read books and others have sex.

But I write poems, there’s no harm in that.

 

They wrapped up my hands so I can’t feel what’s around me.

Can’t write what’s on my mind or write what’s in your heart.

They covered my eyes so I can’t see what others don’t.

Like when you wish others could feel your pain by looking in your eyes.

Like the little things you try to do to make yourself look better.

The little things you might do around the house.

The small things that make you want to live life.

But without it, my poetry they I won’t live to grow old.

 

I’m stuck here and for others to help me….they just won’t

It’s a battle inside me and I don’t think I can win

They numbed my heart so I can’t feel any connection.

Like the pain in my heart or the passion between us.

Like the joy of a smile or the sorrow of a frown.

I can’t help but feel because it keeps me alive.

 

They plugged my ears so I can’t hear the birds and the wind

The happiness in your voice, or the sadness in your walk.

They took all I held dear yet now I’m scared.

I can’t write my poetry, took my ability to hold.

Now I’m worried and afraid they I won’t live to grow old.

 

The words around me I just know are still there.

I have the desire to write, but my mind isn’t clear.

My vains are running dry and my heart is slowing down.

My life is my work and my work is going to die.

What am I to do?

This is worse than writers block.

This made me sick until I got it out.

Now I’m stuck with no way to let myself out.

Trapped in my mind with rhyme to write.

 

The walls around me are soft but unkind.

I’m bound by restrains that choke my soul.

This place is this shape won’t let me grow old.

I’m sorry but this is the last spoken word.

My soul is dry, wrinkled and cold.