Real Poets Love Anyway :)

I'm a little frustrated about what I should do next. I'm debating on continiuing to post to this blog. I've been writing but not posting. I'm also frustrated about the way poets who have been around for a while tend to crush the spirit of newcomers, while newcomers tend to get angry and disrespect those before them. So what to do.....just write anyway.....

Real Poets Love Anyway

There is a rumor floating around town
that the “real” poets have ceased to breathe
Cause they don’t always speak of
love and peace
That their lungs have collapsed
filled with dust
but allowed lips
to continue flapping in the breeze
Reciting some cryptic code
that is plainly stated
but still can’t be seen
because too many “truths”
yours, his, and hers
are vying for the front seat

So now we’re left with
hearts ripped from cords
once tied to the community
Dial them up and the only
answer you’ll receive is
“Sorry, I’m no longer a part of
that travesty - I mean industry”

But I beg to differ
because who among us
has the authority
or perfection
to take and crown
without some type of
bias or
clique-like
admiration-election
“The One”

I mean really who has that power?

For even democracies have
imperfections
ballot tampering
recounts
stolen elections

So I ask you, when did YOU become the mouthpiece for the masses


For the beauty of this craft
I thought
was not the handful of accolades
head nods or throbbing members
we may receive
But a place of refuge
from the complicated truth
and manifested lies
that sleep beside us each night
Not to prove if we’re black or white
but answer an emotion and just write

Fulfilling a number of needs
To fight the legions of demons
that escape from beneath
or those that walk upright
laughing and singing beside us
Some begging us to trust
adoration thrown at us
Not for the words we use
the knowledge we spit
But maybe for the thought
of just how we might fuck

And then for others
Its just simply a device
to keep our ass out of trouble
like cutters slicing through flesh
we often use these words to release the stress
not always understood by others
often relying on the open arms of
our poetic sisters and brothers

But now even they can’t be relied on

So now I stand alone
Writing to cleanse my own hurt
or trying to understand a situation
Cause if I don’t cut myself sometimes
these ink clots in my pen will surely
cause me to die
and I don’t want that
So I do what
I thought
real poets did
Collect up my hesitations
and agitations
Take out my utensils
Spread them on sheets
like butter
and wait for someone to ingest them
swallowing what parts they recognize
as their own plight
But not everyone
Because some will
mince and mangle
what they can’t comprehend
fillet it
dissect it
piecing it back together like
a religious zealot
who quotes a few bible verses
to condemn
but never reads the
whole chapter
But proclaims he/she is
The Master
deciding what’s wrong
overlooking what’s right
Grab a trumpet
blow hot air
and profess
who’s not a real poet

and for me I’ll actually agree

I’m not

I’m a storyteller

One who draws on
what she sees
Old enough to
understand a few things
Wise enough to
know when to speak
Transparent enough
to allow you to
see through me

So the question now is

How real are you?
That you find the need
to speak ill of me
when all you had to do was ask me
and I’ll tell you
exactly why I do what I do
how I see what I see

You know, He did bless
more than a few of us
with the intelligence
to understand
that you and I
may not have the same taste
But my mama raised me
not to piss on another’s plate
So I mind my manners
slide a chair to your table
taste the shit you serving
and love you anyway
cause isn’t that what
“real” poets are
suppose to do?

love anyway

© 12/2009 Erika Gresham