I must feed the inner poet in me
Or he will fade and die
And I will lose him for all times
There will be no more whimsical rhymes
I must feed him the choicest words and phrases
That he can use to build his poems as he goes through phases
Of creating nonsense verse and haiku
Limerick and the mighty narrative poems that take an hour or two
To waffle through.
I must feed him; him in his horn-rimmed poet’s glasses and button-down clothing
Even though he is held up like this to the fear and loathing
As in Las Vegas; Staying in Las Vegas on a poet’s wages;
Which are said to be as thin As sin
I have to feed the poet inside of me
With the fuel for his rickety-finickity poetry vehicle
Or he will break down
He will cry out:
“Oh! Muse, thou hast forsaken me?”
(For he often speaks anachronistically)
“Thou hast left me in my hour of need,
Left me barren and parched
With just an orange to eat from.”
I have to feed said poet with the twists and turns of humanity’s foibles.
So, that like a cat he can cough them up at inopportune moments in PDA (public displays of affliction);
Where, with conviction, he will arrest the minds and the hearts of a willing audience.
I told you he was hungry
Now he’s having delusions
But, I am under no illusions
I know that I will continue to feed the poet that is within me
For I am not a poet without him.