by Rob Dyer
the art of words
is culled and torn
from a soul in crisis
as naked as porn
it cuts and slices
to tell what must be told
in tones both weak and bold
tearing through rages
to cover the pages
sending tomorrow to the ages
turning young hearts into sages
with blood from all our trials
tribulations
smiles and aggravations
from the obscure to the obscene
on golden ponds in life serene
where chance can stand and scream
and horror can kill a dream
once held in infants hands
poetry has no true demands
it needs no structured plans
an open path to walk through
to relive what once did kill you
but can never be cured
until the nothing seeks the word
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