We mostly write about the things we’ve never seen,
About endless romances,
That delight in wine loaded with magic,
Kisses in moonlight that are subtle,
Yet revealing of ourselves,
In the most dramatic manner
We write about the things we’ve always wanted,
About things we hardly remember,
About the moments that never really happened
I guess I could say,
Life is an endless lie,
Tuned into a charming aspiration,
For the mystic, for the heroic, for the magical, for the eternal

We mostly write about the things that we wished,
Would make us ache
But don’t
About the people we wish we had around us,
And the things we wish they’d do
About the places we perhaps, visited once, or twice
The places that made our hearts irk restlessly,
For groove, for magic, for spontaneity in sunshine
About the women we thought we met,
About their kisses that seemed to last forever
But are now gone, disappeared into aching memories

We mostly write about things we never have to worry about,
That’s the thing about poetry
The thing about it that makes us weep for it,
The freedom it gives us
Making us fools at the cost of our own elation,
It’s a price worth paying
The thing about poetry, that makes us erect,
For words, magical words, words drenched in winely drunkenness
For words that mean nothing, and yet everything
The thing about poetry,
Is it is alive, and meaningless, yet, alive
That’s the thing about most things that we see through our days

It’s no poem if you’ve thought much about it,
Given it too much of your mind,
Bits of your heart chewed out painfully,
Too much of your memories
It is no poem if you’ve given it all of that
A real poem delights in nothing,
And takes form through the fingers of men,
Without any single entity creating it
It’s no poem if you say it’s your poem,
And if you do,
It’s just another letter of lies from the sorrows of your dreams

Bad poetry comes from great men,
And only bad poetry can resurrect you from your routined misery

We mostly write about the things that elude us,
The men that delude us
We mostly write about things we cannot understand,
Selling our confused afternoons on busy office floors,
To bearded men with messages on YouTube
To vegan memes and postcard dreams on Facebook
Selling our lives to the cheap imagery,
Of the uncast universe
Selling our dreams to the colors of the netted chasm,
That these folk call the internet

It’s all about bad poetry, that’s going to take saving you

I’m up for all sort of chatter and whisky,
For nonsensical things
Nothing in the world stands to be important
Every man wants his toys,
And when he has the words to bring his dreams to reason
He sells his greed in the market,
As a vital need of the planet
Nothing in the world stands to be important,
Not you, not me, not the people you love
Everything passes and everything dreams,
Sweet dust on the endless beaches of time
You are sweet, and you are me,
And we love to no reason, but catastrophe

Nothing in the world stands to be important
Drink to our disastrous end,
To a dreary retelling of this mad tale,
That we’ve so often called life
Drink to it my friend,
The monsoon lasts not much longer,
And my words will take a different turn
From doom probably to some false sense of ecstasy,
And then you’d be reading joy from my heart
Some sense of fake happiness,
As the stars it’s them who tell my tale
As they dance my organic being through seasons

The stars it’s them who tell all tales,
Through all seasons
And at the end of all seasons,
It is them who draws you back,
As dust, gleaming dust
Through dark space,
Drawing you back to where you came from,
Drawing you back to where you’ve never been
Re-spawning you as some other mad dream
You are fire, you are ice,
You are stardust

But when you decide that your dance has had enough wine,
You settle for the night,
And get busy,
With reality

Good night star gazer,
I’ll kiss you at morn,
On the other side

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