The poet must sing a thousand songs before dying a thousand deaths.
A thousand symphonies soft, the music must play on.
Long after a human will is broken beyond repair.
Long after the voices have all been tucked away.
Long after a ship is lost at sea.
The poet must sink to a thousand ocean bottoms.
When the voice in your head says the hell with it, fight.
When the marrow in your bones says the hell with it, fight.
When the depths of your soul screams the hell with it, fight.
For this is when it finally reveals.
If I write a little each day I feel good amidst the turmoil.
If I drink a little each day I feel good amidst the turmoil.
When I don’t do these two things I become like a wheelbarrow gathering rain or a well past his prime soprano singing off key notes through chipped teeth.
You see, tangled souls can’t be straightened, but with time and wisdom gained they can become less marred by the bulge.
If you’ve ever seen a starfish washed ashore, sun bleached and abandoned, then you would know this already.
Time is the master.
Time cleanses us all.