Reality and Pleasure

In our most deepest thoughts we see
realities of love  and death in relation
to our art,

We attempt to portray these thoughts
into words that come from the heart,

Of fictional pleasures that are derived
from dreams that were expressed by
Keats and Yeats.

 We dream of beautiful love and of
incredible loss, we use our pens to
unlock all these things behind the
minds gates, 
We open the gates and let pain and
sorrow come flooding out,

and dance with death in the midnight
house,

We soar like birds upon our wings,
flying high into cumulus clouds,

We dive into oceans and seas to swim
with mermaids in warm clear water of
of our dreams,

But what of all these things,

As S. Freud said, “It was not I that found
the subconscious, but the poets”

So who do I write for, do I write for thee or
is it for me,

Do you see the pictures I try to express or
maybe I should just digress, I am loss in
Imagery and words that I try to address,

with out knowing of the greats I will never
be able to put into words what I really want
to express.

To my poet friends, your words have unlocked
love and also the hidden hell.

Poetry is like insanity.