Art- The Sadist (2007)

To write a poem is a bane excuse,

An escapist's art, sans his muse.

Papers rot with moist, bloody verse,

Feeding my heart with an enduring curse.

To write and rot and fret with ease,

Teaches the curse- my foolish past deeds.

Bred a swine my art would be,

Born of a 'she' but father not me.

With every rise, the sun shall see

The death of a morn and a lifeless tree.

A shelter that was to the souls of a past,

Bare and stripped, and blossoms- dust.

A curse can kill, a curse can raze

But can it buy time a few more days?

A day to forgive and a day of rest,

In an embrace unbroken to rest my case?

Art lives strong but the hand has to die,

While another's born to write with a sigh.

"Till death do us part", is a phrase full of lies,

As in phases it comes, dead before it dies.

What then is the need to love?

What drives man, the poet above?

To fall on their knees and feed on the past

To lose his mind for a scavenging lust?

Its art the sadist, that sows the seed,

That breeds in them a manic need,

To love, to lose, to live and to die;

To write showy lines based on a lie.