At Tip of Pen

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