Defined By a Poet

November 5, 2015

My friend once asked me,
Who are you?
I took it as the joke it was and prepared a retort.
I prepared to contort.
Contort who I was into a report,
That would make the best con artist,
Grin with his best fake smile.
I am a discordant simile,
I look the same,
But a comparison doesn't work.
My tongue awkwardly fits a language not my own,
Trying to tell to the world,
Things that time tells to silence.
I am a wondering adjective,
Adding to the nouns from other mouths,
Descriptive.
I mean things but can't say them.
A descriptive euphemism.
My life is a twisted prize,
Torn from the lies of those disinclined to be who their moralized faces fossilized.
Playing my cards to hide my eyes,
Yet protect the ones who,
Held cards up their darkened sleeves.
I am a broken dream,
Trusting people to be who they seemed,
Lost in the beauty of hope and the idea of being free.
But this was a dream bound to crash.
Crash in a laughing flash that would outlast the stash of drops in the ocean.
This dream fell,
To the best fake smile,
An oxymoronic hyperbole,
To the masks of the last suspects.
But I am not defined by the design,
Of rhymes that decline to follow the rise,
Of the poet's eyes.
I am not defined by the the lies of misspelled homonyms,
Or disfunctional metaphors.
I am not defined by
Organic pseudonyms.
I am a creative creation,
A spinner of words and stories,
A pheonix from ashes,
I am a multifaceted heartbeat,
Beating in iambic pentameter,
Rises and falls creating a symphony of beuty,
Passions flowing like ink on a poet's page.
I am an eagle in the sky,
free to hope,
to believe,
to dance,
to fly.
The truth is,
Misspellings made me who I am.
I was placed on an imperfect page,
Interlaced with imperfect poems,
Faced with imperfect choices,
Rased to imperfection with no choice,
Yet written into a perfect plot,
Diamond from coal,
Passion from cold,
Ore to gold,
An imperfect piece made good by grace,
I am a poem woven of tangled hopes,
Sewn together by heaven's vote but,
This poem is defined by the author,
Never,
By the quill.

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Comments (2)

sallah222Dec 1, 2015

Oh my god! This is truly riveting!!! This made tears well in my eyes and inspired me to pick up my pen and pad again. Wow.

shepherdsninjaNov 5, 2015

My friend once asked me, Who are you? I took it as the  joke it was and prepared a retort. I prepared to contort.  Contort who I was into a report, That would make the best con artist, Grin with his best fake smile.  I am a discordant simile, I look the same, But a comparison doesn't work.  My tongue awkwardly fits a language not  my own, Trying to tell to the world, Things that time tells to silence.  I am a wondering adjective, Adding to the nouns from other mouths, Descriptive.  I mean things but can't say them.  A descriptive euphemism.  My life is a twisted prize, Torn from the lies of those disinclined to be who their moralized faces fossilized.  Playing my cards to hide my eyes, Yet protect the ones who, Held cards up their darkened sleeves.  I am a broken dream, Trusting people to be who they seemed, Lost in the beauty of hope and the idea of being free.  But this was a dream bound to crash. Crash in a laughing flash that would outlast the stash of drops in the ocean.  This dream fell, To the best fake smile, An oxymoronic hyperbole, To the masks of the last suspects. But I am not defined by the design, Of rhymes that decline to follow the rise, Of the poet's eyes. I am not defined by the the lies of misspelled homonyms, Or disfunctional metaphors. I am not defined by Organic pseudonyms. I am a creative creation, A spinner of words and stories, A pheonix from ashes, I am a multifaceted heartbeat, Beating in iambic pentameter, Rises and falls creating a symphony of beuty, Passions flowing like ink on a poet's page. I am an eagle in the sky, free to hope, to believe, to dance, to fly. The truth is, Misspellings made me who I am. I was placed on an imperfect page, Interlaced with imperfect poems, Faced with imperfect choices, Rased to imperfection with no choice, Yet written into a perfect plot, Diamond from coal, Passion from cold, Ore to gold, An imperfect piece made good by grace,  I am a poem woven of tangled hopes, Sewn together by heaven's vote but, This poem is defined by the author, Never, By the quill.