# 193

I'm not usually too OCD about my poem names or when they get posted here. But as I named this #193, and my last was the 192nd on this blog, then I either had to post it now, or change the name. But that would have made it a different poem.  %^P
So, now it must be;


# 193

Well, that’s what poetry does,
Poetry isn’t
  petty and conversational, nor
  protesting and controversial,
Poetry distills the silence of the lonely
  into the elixir vitae of talk, talk that
Speaks volumes on the non-thoughts between
  what lies on our mind and
  the beast at the door

Poetry is all faggots,
  which is why we are ever traipsing faerie woods,
Where faggots become fardels, and fardels then
  the burdens of a generation,
Not yelled from bullhorns,
  nor ignoble in riot,
But quietly wrote, born,
  born to be borne, ever needy, baby crying,
The one thing every body wants,
  the one thing everybody needs;  

"Please, someone, please,
  Could You heal my ill world?"