teen:a portrait of a poet

 this youth

who say he

dark

the wind

can beat the

path

worn incomplete

still growing

white (and with the weeds)

his curly hair

may be a mark

of slavic stare

or jewish snark

or celtic gleam

his wit is sharp

try all you can

his dumb remarks

implode a star

wake from the dream

the raven paths

and rugged depths

his soul to laugh

how shall he grow

a bit tall-not so

the fiery spark

will dampen

down

the light in tow

now drawn sliced and quartred

to wind

as wind was still 

life never was

he wished to be a poet

cause

a dream was all he knew

beelzebub now does a dance

ever fleeing from company

work 

if deranged he's free

but crawls in mud

but whistles as he sinks

the curtain bow

ego 

too thats one word

that describes him well

and comforts squueze him

his anxieties with him 

give him hell

but nature likes

to do 

what he please 

if god

hed know by now

a pleasant breeze

can calm a toadstool

a shiver start a myth

a mountain cause a rift

the sea to shift submerged

individuality purged and divided 

society collapsed when it decided

to just not show

i feel im late for the vision

the date the type of show

you wouldn't expect to see me in

the urge to leave always begins

when birds waking in twilight

gives his conscious stage

a light

a pessimist

a bit more you could call me

id say

but i look and though my stake

is burning

and my flesh and soul seperating

i know im more deserving

as a boy

a one part of the whole

not as a poet

i think in times lost shadow

around the carcass gleam

of melt

my fears may come unto me

as one loud shout

a death word noise or squeal

but regardless no many words 

may say truly how i feel

i know i dont

want to but i 

i know that boy is me now