The Poetry Marathon

I’m a thief with grief

I longed to get relief

I’m a beast incarnate

Compassionate by nature

I’m like a failure with no out-vie

But I always vie

I’m a phony music with

With bonny euphony

I’m lost in the phase

Driven by the lust for peace

I’m in the race to be rich

I hope for the ideal niche

I’m like a zoo with whales

A sea with eagles

I’m good

but not an angel

I engaged in many sins

But I’m not the devil

I’m not a lazy youth

I’m just a crazy guy from the Trenches

Planted the seeds of your love,

in the dungeon of my heart,

where nothing grows but pain,

and blooded rose of regrets;

singing a melody of dismay

with the fragrance of anguish.

It bloom, i bleed mentally and physically.

My nose could cry a river in blood,

and catarrh running down to my lips.

My face is now a battle field,

covered with blood of a trembled heart;

yearning for unadulterated affection.

Rejection wreck havoc in my ship,

dragging me to the darkest cove,

where I cries and drowned in distress.

With no active compass to find my new rose,

I’m stuck between trying or crying;

Yes, flowers don’t bloom in the concrete.

Found myself amid buried cadavers

Yet I can still hear the tunes of molten flows of oxymorons and euphemisms

Addressing me as a dead poet.

Am I a dead poet?

I asked myself; with a deeper voice

thinking it could be my obsession

with metaphors and clingy act on similes

That made me believe I’m still living.

Am I a dead poet?

I seek answers from weeds and heap

Of sands that surround me

Despite enjoying the luxury of silence

And reminiscing about good poetry

I still hope life would give me a chance

To be reborn but I ask myself; Am I a dead poet?