I spell out myself
Or is it
I spill out myself
All in the hope
Of nothing
That's not true
There's always
A purpose
A goal
To flexing linguistics
Lyrical gifts
Syllabic clippings
Or entrails of my
Ego, superego and Id
Or collected scraps
On that old dustpan
In the corner
Set aside until
The bin is changed
Space among
The wrappers and rubble
—
It's hard to be afraid
Of monsters
And distant etchings
Of humanity
When you know
How capable I am
With tools of
Chiseled deception
And lingering lies
—
Sometimes
The pen has
A mind of its own
But often that's
Spin
Like an announcement
You wanted to make
But didn't want to feel so blase
So you covert it
How did that get out
Did my feelings run amok
I know they didn't
#
Going with the flow
Means you know
Exactly where
Your words may take you
But go there anyway
Because reverse
Is not progress
Regression
Is not digression
#
People often say
Your work got darker
Less hope
Less light
Is it midforty crisis
Or dead dad dichotomy
I wonder
So much
Until I don't care
—
Squelching dragon
Forlorn kitten
—
I end this year as I started it
Naked though not actually
Exposed though nothing changes
Unsure if I even want to be your hero
Of word and phrase
Plot and human emotional dissection
#
But I do
Of course I do
I always do
#
The myth is the cover story
The spin
—
I'm just in it for the dance and the dabbling
With my two right feet
Because no one is brave enough to say that
Always two left feet
—
Self inflicted
Ars poetica
Like arse
I used to when it was firmer
#
Control v leakage
The dance of the poetics
When you find p words instead of d words for poetry
For that last bit you fumbled
#
The search for the dilettante led me
Like pencil shavings
To versifier
But troubadour is what we hope for
—
The Boss internal
That bleeds American dreams
Even in Scotland
Tales of hope and the other thing
My friend the despair
—
Dead dad dichotomy
Dead dad dichotomy
I am sure
#
No one ever gets out of this alive
And I am not done
Until my coffin ignites
#
I am
Not Horace your poetic horse but I am
I am what I am not I am not Othello
Always Iago
Or the picture of Dorian
Not the man
—#—
Strong like Roman
Ego Greek
Scottish pride
Diatribe
Noise moist
Maker breath
Taker
Dead dad vulnerability
Dead dad inevitability
*
Author’s Notes: Aspen Marie deserves a shout-out, because this only formed after we comment-chatted. So thanks, lass.
About the Creator
Paul Stewart
Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.
The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection out now!
Streams and Scratches in My Mind coming soon!
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Comments (13)
Harper husband saying hello! Thank you for becoming a part of our lives—she’s always talking about something her friend Paul said, and it’s fantastic! Hello to Ruth as well!
Oh my, the pain of a parent being gone, of leaving you. And then You are It, you know? Not there to ask, and then you become the one to ask. Flow with it like a stream through the woods and to town. Breathe.❤️
This was bloody raw and just fucking outstanding. I'm so glad you poured this out of you and onto the page. Your brilliant mind shows and your flaws and your wants and your needs. Loved to be privy to every bit :)
Nothing wrong with dark poetry… it’s the sleeper sub-genre of the times 🖤🖤🖤. Loved your line breaks and flow.
It is such a pleasure to read this. Those first two lines are particularly striking, not simply because they lead the piece, but because the initial lightheartedness is held hostage by your deliberate correction in the second line. I noticed your use of Metanoeia; it immediately shifts the tone from something structured to something much more vulnerable and revealing. I particularly love the balance in the line, 'Because reverse is not progress, regression is not digression.' I spotted your use of Chiasmus here; that 'X' structure, where the concepts fold back into themselves, makes the sentiment so easy to agree with. It creates a linguistic balance that feels like an undeniable truth. I humbly agree with you!
Sheeeesh, this is exposure, the honesty drips blood from line to line. It's true though, nobody gets out of this shit alive. Awesome poem, Paul.
Strong like Roman Ego Greek Scottish pride That's quite the combination, Sir.
A lot of great wordplay in there. That titular stanza; it has such a wonderful mix of triumph and stark reality. 👏👏✨
I love this, and I chuckled over your play with “covert”—Patrick and I were playing with that word last night (we’re both kind of nerdy).
That's right just let it all out and you will feel better. Great work.
Brilliant, insightful, clever wordsmithing, Paul. This took us on a journey through your creative world. (you could submit it to my unofficial challenge, methinks!) Stellar work mate!
An intense burning set of words Paul
Honoured beyond measure, sir Paul! A marvel you’ve shared with the ease of breathing. My favourite line: “Tales of hope and the other thing My friend the despair” True poetry, this piece. Deeply and humbly honoured.