The Stool Poet

I stand on the precipice of infamy.
watching a cold soul sit on a stool outside bleeding,
leaving a flood of blood…
wishing i were as lucky as he.
I watch as he pounds the keys with as much force and fervor
as a boulder falling on concrete. with no pause in site,
he must be desperate,
hungry and
or suicidal.
his ribbed protruding bones
hide underneath his overcoat
and his hands,
cratered, rough and raw,
shake from the willowed wind
with each motion.
His face is as still as stone,
yet the black ink overflows
from his heart and
onto the dilapidated ground
he sits on–
eager for that next word
to lead him to the next drink.
I envy him.
With the same ferocity,
i turn out an orgy of words,
yet, i confine my heart to a prison
and drink it all away
until there is nothing left
but black ash from
an arson fire.

— JMT 2.20.15