Poems

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April 26, 2005

To Go Astray

Unknown are the poets
Whose hearts really bleed,
Pouring themselves onto pages
In portraits of passion and pain.
Few are the lyrics
To the songs we enjoy
That their authors cry at night
And write pain by day.
The money they make removes them
From the ghettos they wrote so well about
After a while, memories fade
And they become
Puppets of the people
Slaves to the bubble pop salesmen
Saying what makes the most money
Rather than what they know.
A ready to explode keg of frustration
Substituted by flash and fascination
Something to make him forget
How lonely it is
At the top...

Posted by BlueWolf on April 26, 2005 10:59 PM