What Title Works

I wish to return 
To mine own tales
And keenly yes
In tales of poetry

But here's the thing
I'm afraid
Of what will happen
If this I do
And I reach a point
I cannot write past

Aye
Based on the past iself
It is surely what
Will happen yes
Even though I know
That for me to pants
As in fly me by the seat
Is not the way
To make complete
Some tale of mine
I can't seem to bring
My mind to bear
On the careful construction
Of people places and things
That could yet make for me
Some good success
Out of failure yes

Not that I have any readers here
Or surely more
Than what four
Who last viewed my shit
So let's call it what it is
Or what the seeming reality be
Not to act all bitterly
But I have no choice
Not to use my voice
And if you gave and gave
And got naught but crickets
You'd feel a little bitter too

Well that's not quite true
I don't have to do
The writing or the art
Not to live indeed
I just think 
Well hope
You'd want to read
What yes I write
Even if 
It is what it is

Poetry what
Like what kind of fuck
Thinks that poetry
Can be any help
In this day and age
When outside of miming
It's the stupid rhyming
The people hate the most
Or care for the least
To put it polite
So why even write
What no one cares to read

Well not quite none
But you're not wrong
Or sadly me
That poetry
Is thought of as it is
Like yawn
Wake me when he's gone
Standing there
speaking as he does
Like he's so clever
And can make the words dance
Even fucking flow
As if he's better than us

Is that what it really is
They're jealous of us
That we make the words dance
Even on the spot
Like what we got
Is better than their best

Well it certainly gives them more
Goodly credit
Than they're too stupid
To let the flow
Sink into their soul
And perhaps impart
A deeper wisdom

Yet rap alas
Our cousin sung
When those words are flung
They are well more met
Though rap is music
And music makes it right

Well we can't all music
Just as you can't rhyme
Not the way we can
But music is
And poetry ain't
So it sucks to paint
When all our paintings
As it were
Hang alone
In vast long houses
That no one but their writers visit

I wish to return
To mine own tales
Even in verse
Which will fail me worse
Than my prose it will
Which makes me what
A  glutton for
Punishment and more
Even laughter and derision
If the wrong eyes should find my work
And in their irk
Take shots at me
With all their friends
Piling on

Okay it's most unlikely
That anyone would
Yes hateread me
With my poetry
When I'm not political
Though you can guess my lean
And be not right
Which leaves you left

Not that that 
Makes proper sense
It's poetry sir
And I can be
As weird and strange
As I might ever want 
And it still fits

Only time will tell
The fullness of my tale
And no matter how little I sell
And it is little
So I'm sure to keep on failing
As long as I'm sailing
The lake that's life
You might have a sea
Or even an ocean
But the best that I might ever have
Is yes a lake

Though quiet on the surface 
And teeming beneath
Is fitting to me
So I'll take my lake
And hope to one day break
The ceiling just above my head
Or fucking floor
If I'm being frank
Because that is apt it is

Row row row
Round and round 
The lake I go
When I stop
I just don't know
But I can hope and pray
That there will come the day
Where I will see
A gathering for me
With cash in hand
Because you understand
What my goodness is
And want a piece for yourself

Now all I gotta do
Is write that tale
In mine own head
And make it real
And how damn hard
Can that even be
I say laughingly
Before my laughter turns
And I cry again
When the fuck when
Yes when the fuck when indeed

Charles Petrie

Date
07-25-2019

Time
03:20 zzzzzzzzzzzz 10:57

Word Count
752