I am the poet of the true reality—
not the shared dream, communal illusion.
Not the dream of what is,
but the dream of what must be.
I am the poet
because I see what must—
yet what must, do not exclude.
It includes all that must,
the good and the bad,
the necessary tone for a seed
to break free,
to rise through the pit of existence,
to life.
the man who weaves tragedy,
a high emotional fix,
and I am the poet
who shows you joy and pain,
tears and laughter,
are inseparable threads.
I am he who sees a lion
in love with its trainer—
yet left starving,
thrust into the cage,
forced to choose:
love or instinct,
the scent of blood or tender kisses,
the whiff of pheromones
or the bloom of tender love,
hunger, thirst, or friendship.
All this,
just for the tragedy of it.
I am he who creates mountains
from valleys,
between the screen and the audience.
I am he who kisses you
to awaken butterflies,
who wields his tongue
to stoke the hunger of lust.
I am he who coaxes every tune
from the instruments
hidden within you.
And I catch your butterflies—
their vibrant hues,
in the carrion of colours,
in the ambrosial honeycombs of tastes,
in the beehive of words, in poetry.
I hear the music of flowers
and warm you with the tempo
of a nightingale’s heartbeat flames.
As my adoptee,
you are my students. child,
my muse.
I would never spoil you—
unless it’s to enslave you to your art,
to stretch your pain
and potentiate your brilliance,
to heighten your hues,
your highlights.
You are my theatre, my canvas.
I write my poetry
with the ink of pain.
I crawl like worms through dirt
for the sake of your bloom.
The neighborhood suffers
your harsh discords,
until the music germinates
in your chord.
