Shippo101

I was not born with poetic skills flowing out my fingertips.
Nor was I born to dream in metaphor,
Or give the blind man the gift of imagery.

I was born to try until my fingers fell off.
I was born to boil coffee to fuel that midnight train.
I was born to breathe until my lungs went dry,
And still try.

I learned seven years of history from slam champions
Who weren’t born with skills of Gods.
Seven years of balled up clichéd love poems.
Seven years of repeated failures.

I can show you how the dead comes back to life.
I can make you taste the gravel from the mountain top.
I can let you listen to the dieing phoenix’s song.

Even heaven had flaws,
No one knows the knowledge God has hidden,
It’d be our death bed
before we see what we really know.

I’m only a bag of flesh,
Containing this will to triumph.
It has no expiration date,
Even when my body has reached
An inevitable end.

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beast

Good poem about creating Poems. I loved the stanza:
I learned seven years of history from slam champions
Who weren’t born with skills of Gods.
Seven years of balled up clichéd love poems.
Seven years of repeated failures.

It takes so many years of work to try to get these skill sets. The metaphor of nails falling out is awesome.

atomik_sprout

Nice! I like this piece very much. It reads like I should be listening to you do spoken word in a coffee shop. ^_^

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