The Word for Writers

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They try to hide “it”.
Try to shun “it” through self-serving insolent conversation as
“it” resides in such “well-meaning” places.
They think, some how, to excuse “it”.
Maybe because of the guilty way “it” can make them feel.
While guilt is but another master at egos selfish reflection,
such will deny “it” as something vain.
Some insidious emotion they feel incapable of having…yet they react.
They try to avoid the contentious controversies “it” always seems to evoke by hiding behind some self-given title of,
“artist”– stating that – they are “creating”.
Nevertheless, they only wish to excuse “it” and themselves.
Still and all, this thing they choose to call “expression”
is simply the squawking mind of ones gluttonous ego.
And their little club of self-centered dreamers
considers these vain efforts permissible within
“their” genera of “art”.
Thus, as with all art, one’s eccentric idea of perfection
becomes another greedy person's commerce.
Simply put,
life, as “art” is but ego flaunting its own agenda, declaring
“mine is better than yours”.
Driven by such selfish motive,
the poet’s ego flatters itself with an opinionated voice oppressing “True Art”;
that of God given talent.
Yet, may they so being allowed such freedom to speak,
find the aftertaste bittersweet and realize that they themselves were but servants unto their boisterous pride.

Still,
the written word has become man’s greatest tool for expressing ideas,
making his motives clearer proceeding into the future.
Lessons learned through life’s misfortunes
noted on scrapes of paper
attempt to be guidance yet
God’s is the only wonderful teaching device.

Strange how we trust a poet to communicate life’s mysteries.
To give meaning to life,
to try to teach what life truly means.
These poor words, by nature,
can only imitate life thus
allowing ego to intervene.
While “true life”, the intangible life of spirit,
will never be held within any such word as these are but syllables,
expressions of an ego,
symbolic ideas a poet dreams to share.

From the mind of a writer comes
“his” purpose and meaning of what he observes.
His perspective of reality, of what he sees or thinks he sees,
of what he dreams and chooses to believe.
E.g., Journalists portray life in black and white.
Sports writer's dab a little color into the game.
A child learns proper grammar.
Poets paint pictures with words.

A poet's ego slashes through life with words, careless.
As a knife wounds, they bleed, beautifully killing.
Such poets with a pen are as lunatics with loaded guns.
Crazy, obnoxious, screaming about some injustice done.
Lines, phrases, books of endless dribble yearning for expression.
Thinking that “a dare” holds the answer to God’s intent.


And mine own voice shouts,
“This whole ‘World’ is but a ‘Word’ each writer must explore!”

“Life is about living without willful conceit.
Truly, it is not about monetary profit.
As morals reflect the touchstone of life,
One must acquire spiritual concerns.”

And here you have this poet’s ego.


T. M. Lowry
7/18/2002
Copyright © 2002 T. M. Lowry

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