This is a poem written by me, Grant Clover, a beat poet on rare occasion. Without further ado:
This Paper Stage
This heap in my chest
That some call a heart
Strangles another breath
Into something some call art.
But waiting, I’m wading through the mess,
Praying for the best, but in the dark
The sun looks so far, unless
We finesse another spark
From the hard bark of night’s dark heart…
Then slowly showing,
The stars a carousel of glowing,
The twinkle of celestial music — growing,
Slowing, I breathe deep,
I need sleep,
But instead, I’m here oozing onto papers,
Words make for dangerous neighbors,
But these words bleed,
Straight from this fierce soul blaze.
They don’t exchange “hellos” and “good days”,
They’re barbells being lifted and placed
In a brick by brick stony array,
Listening, hold on,
The night’s so still,
I hear it, leaning on the windowsill…
Oh, if looks could kill,
The moon is beauty in a cyanide pill,
And again I spill
Another inky soliloquy until
The page is burning
With all the flames I’m churning
I will fill this still night with the chill of my plight, learning
To release my flame a little louder,
Hear the pain burn a little bit prouder,
So I will,
Write another soliloquy,
Even if it isn’t, call it poetry,
Slowly, the beauty is easier to see,
The flames, these flames within me,
Are art my heart couldn’t see
Before now, now it’s all out,
I hold this page,
Everything I feel dancing on this paper stage,
Out of the cage, my monsters are all fake,
And they fade, and they fall to their fate…
And their graves are beautiful on this paper stage.
Fantastic!