Whatever I Write Poem by Mark Heathcote

Whatever I write, whatever my themes
I want my poetry to speak of a man of dreams.
Not of a man of political regimes
While everyone around me either laughs or screams

I want my poetry to reject the nonsense of being the same.
There's no one I know who's to blame.
They're all as blind or deaf as my neighbour next door.
Whatever you like darling or love, it's all a dying repertoire.

It's all an after-show, an encore selfishly desired.
Or inconsiderately dying, just lying
Bleeding on the page—as if giving up life was required.
As if giving up loving, giving up caring was truly edifying.

As if giving up my words, as if giving up poetry
It would be more - hip and have a better handle.
And we'd all be better off dead with a bullet of lead.
Then read what some prophet said as our next protégé.

Darling, whatever you like, I'll write to you.
Gentle or proud, egotistical and loud
I'll write for you; I'll write for you.
Darling, you are a creation. A heavenly creation

Darling, all you said was made to me proud and glad.
I am tired of being bored.
Wondering what it's all been for.
Oh, I want you to write poetry everybody talks about.

And take it home, darling, darling, I want you to touch my soul.
And wheeled a blunt axe backstage.
And tell me it's always been you.
And you say, what's been me? ' And I say worship and poetry.

The loose threads on your dress
Everything you do and speak. I guess.
As if philanthropical worship past the dawn
Will answer all my calls, all my prayers predawn.

Whatever I write, whatever my themes
I want my poetry to speak of a man of dreams.
Not of a man of political regimes
Because when the sunsets or rises everything gleams.