Seldom do my words make sense to me,
Seldom do they have a destination,
Perhaps they are lost aimlessly into oblivion,
Perhaps someone can give them a definition.
To care without purpose given the name of love,
A vagabond on the lane of verses given the name of a poet,
Not all who walk are lost my beloved,
Some are not meant to sing in a duet..
I write letters to the unknown,
I convey riddles to the unfathomable above,
For the seeds were sown by that and to that the fruit belongs,
To the world I stand tall so to the infinite being I can bow...
Forms and shapes given to energy omnipresent,
That which is not and that which is everything,
The creator and the destroyer of all tangible and other,
What am I? I am nothing..
They are not like me my lord, I am not like the crowd,
A voice echoed, what is the purpose in fitting in
I gazed and gazed at the sky finding the source,
Ah! what a fool I was, the source was within..
If the verses sounded like those common,
it would be nothing but noise,
Where do I belong, I long to know,
You will hear my verses if not my voice...
The careless corners of the selfish soul,
speak of soothing sunlight and roaring rain,
Some sides darker, the melancholic maniac,
A poet's loud mind becomes the saintly soul's bane..
Blitzkrieg of chatter within skulls, souls in shackles of desire,
Philosophy petrified by these times,
To have everything is to want nothing my child,
Expectations and wants of this body numbing the soul's chimes...
Why do I write, I just do,
If none, I sing it to the night,
A restless often vehement mind and a vagabond's soul,
Lets see where the letters reach... a poet with a plan does not sound right..
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