Poetry suffers tragic language
A sickness thick with words
We poets are proud proclaimers
of liberating grace
So ask me to write a poem
about the bump on my middle finger
from forcing pen to paper
Ask me about the nights
of nocturnal desires
spent alone inking
soul on page
Ask me why my heart
belongs to poetry
for eternity
times two
Ask me how
soft nouns
hard verbs
bent stanzas
crease sheets
as we change
compositions
Ask me how
My lips are
ink stained
because I'd rather
speak my mind
Ask me how
I made music
with my motions
how I drummed out
solo's on your chest
Ask me why
I would die
for just one kiss
Ask me why I say
I'm masochistic
that I crave the
ache and burn
of the pen
Ask me why I choke
on the verses lodged
in the back of my throat
Ask me why I'm a prisoner
of poetic imagery
Ask me why the vein of my love
is deeper than most human brains
can fathom unlocking mysterious hidden
windows deep in my subconscious
Ask me why...
... and I will tell you
Cause
We poets are proud proclaimers
of liberating grace
By Samantha Campbell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem