Wordsmithing

I don’t live for poetry

I conjure up a chrysalis of words

And wrap myself tight in the blankets

Eyes wide shut behind rose tinted glasses

The real world scares me

This ever present I is not a symbol of my vanity

It’s a buffer between the real world and me

Right now I am a surgeon

Sharpening my scalpel

I’m ready to perform open heart poetry

There’s more money in cosmetic poetry

Trimming fat and fixing noses

Hallmark cards

Colour-blind roses

There’s more respect in Neurosurgical nuances

There’s grit and truth in metallurgical monoliths

Nobody understands placebo poetry

But we all feel better afterwards

Don’t we?

I like my medical metaphor but they don’t call us surgeons

In fact the best of us are called wordsmiths

So my scalpel’s cast aside

I send the nurse out for a sledgehammer

I take the issue of the day and I beat the ever loving crap out of it

I thrust my thoughts into a furnace

Temper my hopes

Quench my dreams in oil

Lose three fingers to the toil

And maybe if I’m good enough

I’ll push the world and all its ugliness

Through a white hot iron crucible

And come out with something beautiful