I have a crowd phobia
and who knows what other diagnosis still missing.
I just go down the street
I don't want to see anyone .
People don't know what's wrong either
Me neither.
I wonder what.
I had enough and that's it.
I just write but where are the rhymes ....
Paired rhymes would help ,
if they came and could be held.
The beautiful paired rhymes i miss ,
they are always on the wanted list.
I often get the headache by the rhymes,
I do not trust,
for even if they stay a while
they disappear so fast.
They come and go ,
they live just for the moment
with no serious message or whatever content,
i tried them many times and then i left -
but they lure me back with charming nude concept,
i always do return to them no matter where i went.
yet they care only about their interest,
making sense only of themselves ,
While I spend on them my ink, my capital big letters,
everything what for a little poet matters.
Immortality i seek for them in poems ,
while they chase their fancy nonsense.
That's how they are all the paired rhymes,
and their relatives and all their kinds.
Damn it !
Who's the poet - who's holding the mighty pen-
-with a stack of greenbacks-
what's the problem then ?
Damn the phobia and diagnosis, damn it,
i will be the poet just because i want it !
and I plead ,
let the rhymes have what they need;
even if my turn to come and go,
in the crazy nightlife hoe ,
fueled and lured by nude concept,
with a mind that's firmly set.
The paired rhymes- sit in bars- at nights,
like little stars - offering their charms.
All that matters - big and printed letters,
so get they lured into poems-
if you have a mighty pen,
it's a bonus - every now and then
Two of them attend same college,
and they need the greenbacks
for to gain more knowledge;
easily they never fall to bed,
will they for the sake of poem ?- let us bet.
Seeing capital big letters,
two of them fall into kindness,
you can see they live in wellness.
they are beautiful and so poetic ,
who cares now about the ethic.
Home sweet home, I'm not alone.
i can sense how
Phobia is fleeing by the touch of paired rhymes,
who whisper into me the life of thousand lives .
I do forget the world when breath start rising,
before i loose my last control I'm almost crying.
The much desired, pigeon blooded paired rhymes,
taking body, showing up their naughty sides .
Who would ask now for a meaningful content,
with a pair of rhymes, their touch and scent.
They do not take it as a hard work either but a playful session,
they live it out with lightness and with fun and passion,
they do for art and inspiration whatever it takes,
like true rhymes taste each other in the breaks.
Their embodiment for poet - a sensation,
and for poetry an everlasting inspiration.
The rhymes, the rhymes, the paired rhymes
took poor poet to the heights.
And the rhymes became immortal
stepping into infinite,
never even sensing it.
Desire fulfilled, mission accomplished,
dawning for another day,
they got to go - they can not stay.
Counting well deserved earnings,
into gently bitten ears
they putting back their earrings,
and here you are -off they are ,
let me praise their soul and heart
i will find that pretty hard.
The phobia has also disappeared,
but remained a question :
- Would that be the poetry ?
and if i look for rhymes with such a passion,
should i stay by this one session ?
And where is the real poetry that i been dreaming ?
The athletic long legged, well formed, hexameters,
who easily give flight to poet into heavens.
Where are trochees, iambs and dactyl patterns
who give flight beyond the heavens.
Well
maybe it is not impossible
to find the proper rhyme,
-with capitals letters and time-
but then again
it would be a contradiction to their sense and nature,
for if you could find a single decent rhyme alone,
poetry itself would die- like crashed by stone .
Days after they went,
i still have their taste and scent,
smoking barrel in my hands,
and the phobia just stands.
Bright smile on me still
just the phobia i want to kill .
So i contemplate again:
- the poetry, the phobia, the paired rhymes ,
the capital letters ...
The capitals ! all gone too,
i will need printing to do.
Then me stupid go again to doc ,
for his usual he has on stock-
let him talk for silly folk .
He also spends on rhymes a lot,
yet he is not a poet, he is a doc.
Recognizing that,
is progress in the poetry,
even for the little ones like me.
After all just damn the doc and phobia,
i do not hide from inspiration in the future ,
i will stay with rhymes much longer.
Long live the rhymes !
praise do they deserve
-in spirit, smile and every curve-
Long live poetry !
and plenty of the printed capitals
-when in need-
the wretched little poet calls .
