by Wayne Mason
When your young
you think of the muse
as a beautiful thing
But that isn't
always the case
Sometimes
she is ugly
and cold
But what does
an artist do
but illuminate
tiny truths
that most wash away
in the static
of t.v. screens
How many
poems birthed
by walking through
factory doors
or the malicious scowl
of supervisors
cold stare
How many
lines penned
under the influence
of hunger
and cheap beer
or to the tunes
of sirens and
bombs dropping
on CNN
In a perfect world
there would be
no poets
only poetry
without
words
Ego would melt
into yellowed pages
of archaic verse
and all that
would remain
would be the
poetry of sunrise
with a stiff drink
and a good women
Poems written
in open air
with each
and every
breath
Poems written
with blood
sweat and
experience
