I often feel as though poets are dragons
Our tongues, flames of
Passion, fury, envy or love.
There is both creation
In the way we burn.
Because before the fire gets out
It must work its way through
Veins, lungs and throats,
Scorching our insides in the hope
That it can scald you also.
Know, that if our words burn,
We are already blistered.
For a moment Everything stops. A single silver string suspends Five years of half hopes And dangerous desires. My eyes bore in to hers, Searching for a flicker For anything A single spark to show That all is not lost.
But her pupils Are dark, deep as the ocean. The moment breaks A wave upon her pale blues iris. And all I have left Is the turn of my heel, The lights of the city And the echo of the closed door.
This night will drain from her head, Memories; tears flow to the bed All that remains is the knowledge That something went wrong. But she can’t recall what It hovers, tugs the tip of her tongue, Like a spoilt child, Cries for attention.
There will be times you’ll feel alone. You’ll come back to your home Town, but the streets won’t carry The same gravity that they did when you were Younger, fresher, brighter When the whole world was a promise; Now all you know for sure is that You’ve been let down.
If you are not worried, You are not listening; Magazines have poisoned teens With serpent words, Sharp and silken, Soft as the devil’s tongue. Advertisements are chisels, Etching lies in young girl’s minds As they watch hollow frames Cavort under the burning glare Of a thousand hungry eyes. The harsh music rings through all our ears; And if you are not worried, You have not been listening.