“He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn :
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.”
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Does who I am mater more to me
In the essence of my being,
Or to others and their identities
To their conforming and their values.
Should I perform to them, to be them?
I do not know.
Should I hold to my own?
Know thy self, is the council from the wise.
Poet heal thy self; be well, be calm and examine
My strength and my weakness.
Am I real. Am I true or am I mist in the night.
How could I know.
Is my future unwritten or preordained
Am I to stand or will I be lost.
What good is nobility when you are alone?
Should I rage against my identity?
In one night stands and be something I am not.
Would I want to know.
I am intrigue but I know not why.
I am fire and water, the painting
That was never finished, started but undone.
Art at the brink of extinction, annihilated
With passion and paint.
But what do people know.
Philosophy and madness, poetry and guilt.
Friend but for who? a cliché to be bartered
And exchanged on the breezes of the sea.
Tears of salt and tears of coal.
Embers burning in muses that will
Not do anything but devour.
What should I know.
Poet or fake.
Feed me to the lions.
I am the complexity that has a shallow
Front, a castle that now crumbles in the present.
My stables lie empty, all stallions have bolted.