Are Poets Mad?

Apart from the ones who are obviously insane.

Do they want us to share their pain?

As a madman, let me explain.

Poets tell the truth to kings and to those who don’t want to know what stupidity foolishness brings.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave and so on ad nauseam, you will die, be brave.

Poets may say so what, this is all you’ve got.

The form of madness of the poet makes the poet write of sadness, or in my case, gladness.

The world, they say, is mad, a madman’s dream.

When they look in the mirror that is how things seem.

Some, I admit, more or less get things right.

They don’t write absolute shite.

So yes then, poets are mad, just madder.

In this insane asylum some are gladder, some are sadder.

Poets seek perfection.

A poem needing no correction.

In an unholy world they seek the holy grail.

And fail.

(Don’t take this poem literally, you dope.

If you do for you there is no hope).

Take nothing at face value, is that clear?

Ask yourself, why am I here?

Underneath the stars, drink beer.

If you expect me to explain the whole damn thing, go to Hell.

You have a brain and heart and soul as well.

Who am I but one of you?

A madman too.

You figure it out.

When you do, give me a shout.

What’s it all about?

Find out.

It won’t be a secret if you tell me.

I am real. Smell me.

I am real. Feel my anger, feel my pain.

Why must I explain?

This poem may contain an inadvisable word.

Or so I’ve heard.

Yes, my friends, this poem is subject to alteration.

You won’t know what you’re missing.

Kissing.

Tich Ennis

22nd February, 2017

 

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