Sometimes

Sometimes,

I know not what I mean or how to say it;
Such insight has been denied to me,
To explain what resonates deep within--
A metaphorical mind has never been mine,
Although alliteration may take its dues;
I possess no poetic skill to amend
A weak theme with pretty words.
And so, I am yet undecided whether it is
Modernization that makes mannequins of poets,
Or the testimony of past spilt ink that pressures
Them to abandon the solid for the fleeting,
The earth for the wind, Prometheus for Morpheus.

Sometimes,

I wonder who writes the script we follow,
And what fundamental truth he meant to portray,
In the picayune displays we call “real life.”
Extract quintessence from the skies,
And you’ll find it far too rich for us,
Stuffed on sugar and syrupy sweets,
Unable to handle real food, when given.
Still, I’d take the real thing over the fake,
If only to discover that I am the latter,
Because at the end, it is better to have lied
And made amends than to go on claiming
That we have never lied at all.