Poets

I never wanted to be a tragedy,
not a thing like Sylvia, you see.
I never wanted to write of woe,
a sad, incestuous sap like Poe.
I never wanted the world defiled,
despairing all as Mr. Wilde.
Such is the downfall of this poet,
to be just like them and keenly know it.

Ovens, booze, and lechery,
weaknesses of these poets three.
Death of fathers, wives and friends
make solitary steps to lonely ends.
This the art their pain creates,
alone they form their saving grace.


Poets by Dakota Farley