Scrap Paper

I write these words for no other but me
Immortalised on scrap paper for its eternity
I might lose them, destroy them or throw them away
But I’ll not rearrange them, to suit another’s way.
You can ask a poet to bend or break, but not betray
The one craft that saves them from internal decay.
Some truths can be stretched,
some truths can cause hurt,
but that’s the right of the poet,
the weight of his worth.
Abstraction’s no aid to the poetry’s sire,
dilution won’t bring pretty words to admire.
This word-wearing scribe they’ve caught up in a throng, of
those who’ve already forgotten every word in his song.
Why bother immortalising a moment in time,
It it’s confined within a perennial crime of
refusing description it’s place in the rhyme and
embracing conscription to the mundane replies
you give when I call you on your duplicity?
The mundane replies, coloured by jealousy,
instructing me how to accurately water down my soul,
to enable the reader to play none but their role.
No thanks, I’d rather share a slice of me, with
those who’ll want more, not less, or my reality.
Some nights, my cigarette smells
just like it did whenI was twelve.
Before I knew why the silver tab said ‘Pull’;
before I knew the difference between fresh and stale.
Before I regaled in that first inhale.
Some nights, I wish cigarettes
could be enjoyed intravenously.
So I could smell the night through
my old nostrils;
The sharp taste of night air,
I don’t expect to die today, so
I’m looking to the morrow.
Then looking to the next morn for
I don’t foresee significant sorrow.
This life never is so peachy,
though it may lull you into thinking so.
They’d tell you, if only you’d ask the Kennedy’s –
we never know what’s in tomorrow.
Don’t sweat the small stuff, you just don’t know
when you’ll end up regretting being so shallow.
Don’t waste minutes, emotions, precious life
on  jaded men waxing irretractable knives.
They plot to bleedyou of your life, energy, love.
Lose yourself in these men and you’ll seldom wake up.