Leaving.

The only words I learned to say
In situations such as this were
“How’d you know?” and “whats the point?”
And “I didn’t want it anyway.”
But I could spend a week here teaching
How I learned to take the blame,
When the truth of it would dictate that
There was no one thing that drove me out
And no comfort found in your embrace.

So go on and shake me off.
Like the times I tried to hold you close
Or the times I made some great escape.
It’s not falling at your feet 
And it’s not something I’m prone to say.
I’m leaving,
But I’m leaving far too late.

Well it used to bite me when I lay
With some blond or redhead without you.
But we tried the whole threesome thing.
The open, closed and locked away.
I never had to look too far 
To find someone to replace you,
But maybe too much poetry
Prolonged the sense of what you could do.

So scream a little louder
But you saw the look I gave you when
You said “babe, I can’t live without you.”
You never held me down with force 
Or threats or chains or empty love.
But you never meant a word you said
Except the ones that drove me out
I’m leaving.
It’s over, count me out

Relevance.

  I am not a good writer. I place no importance on the conventional poetic techniques such as form or metre. Styles are straighforward with me because I only think in styleless capacities. I make erratic and untidy rhyming schemes or often none at all. The subject of my poetry is rarely of interest to anyone including, sometimes, myself. If I tried my hand at weaving some form of story or novel I have no doubt it would be a laughable pool of untalented, unentertaining, irrelevant mental vomit where every hint of plot lies undeveloped and every dreary, one dimensional charecter is based on various facets of my self. The heroic Paul. The comedic value Paul. The love interest Paul. The antagonist Paul. The damsel in distress Paul. 
  I must admit though that I don’t really care how developed or naturally inspired my ability as a writer may be. I have no intentions of writing a novel so it doesn’t bother me that I probably couldn’t. I cant sing so the songs i write will never come under scrutiny by the wider world. The music I compose isn’t worthy of a symphony. The little poetry I write is often garbage but sometimes I find myself satisfied. I’m not holding any aspirations of literary success or fame. My scribblings are quite content to live anonimously in my notebooks, written but unread. 
  It’s not the foundations of a career or some fanciful need to express my uninteresting ego that causes me to write. It just happens. Sometimes it happens in short bursts, sometimes it happens because I force it to. I pay no attention to making it fit some preset form or metre. To bending it into conformity with the rules of “good writing.” I would be much more satisfied to carress the fabric of some truth. To unearth some relevant thing that universally applies and tugs at us all. I don’t think it’s happened yet. If I did I missed it, probably because in my carelessness I overlooked it. Relevance is the game I’m playing. 
  I doubt they will ever pay me to do what I’m doing. Fine by me. I wouldn’t be worth the cash.     

Coming Out.

I must confess, for it’s been far too long.
We’ve been friends for some years but before we go on,
There’s the little known secret of my dealings at night.
You may not have guessed, it’s something I hide.
But I’m not ashamed, it’s the world that is flawed.
I’ve committed no crime, broken no laws.
It’s not a phase or a cry for attention.
It’s not sexual doubt or experimentation.
You’d never have guessed from the look on my face,
My strange magazines, how I stare into space.
I’m well prepared for the ribs and the jeers,
But you won’t stop me now, I’ve done it for years.
Sometimes at night, or at work when alone,
I’ll take out my tool, and write out a poem.

That’s right… A poet.