I have been called tragic

though I often thought of my self

as lethargic and spastic

an optimistic pessimist

currently caught in convulsions

I emerge as a purge

with weeks of words

swelled up trying to figure out

What kind of Poet I am?

What kind of poem are you?

Do you dream all day of a better place

where it is all smiles

flowers and rainbows

or are you the kind of poem

that is a hot air balloon

sailing along, gust

being pushed

and pulled

but bobbing along

you might be the kind of poem

that is dark

with a flood of light

like a match stick

struck

and then gone out

like a million matches before

or are you the close doors kind

Don t let anyone in

even if it rains all day

and outside your door

are thousands of packages

with rain gear

and umbrellas

sent from the people who care

about you

return to sender

with smite

and pity

are you the proud

profound

make a declaration

mother fucking, kind of poem

or the soft

to gentle

for gasps

and angel wings

maybe its the gorilla government

to much time on the Internet

reading conspiracy

kind of poem

or the I am here

and I am Queer

I have heard it a thousand times

before kinda poem

I get it, your out

but there is no need

to come busting out the door

like Kramer the sitcom racist

I am putting to rest

the self impressed

want to impress

kind of poem

I want to ask questions

and digress

our general need

to read

not just the words

but the signs

in this you find

seedlings

or stumps

from the heart

of the hopeless romantic

to frantic

and diabolically rebellious

wanting to self impress

but failing

in the purgatory of the paradox

and lost inside a parody

it’s time I get some rest.

Wake up

and do my best