poets
tiptoeing
on the edge
of their madness
produce the most
fluid verse, much more
than the sane man ever could.
life and death at the tip of a pen
of the lives and deaths of ignorant men
but you know it is not acclaim that I seek
no, my verse could never be so bleak.
staring down these rabbit's holes, I know with any animal I'd go
bounding down into a world unknown, that for a moment I might know
that wondrous land of cats and colors and hatters mad, of caterpillars on lily pad
those moments we long to have had, when eyes and ears and mind turn bad
turn ecstatic urges sad, bleeding life at tip of pen
a poet on the edge, a mind on the brink
a man that wishes to sit and think
all these things I never would
write about or say to you
if I simply wanted to
be the fellow on
the bus, and
never ever
make a
fuss
