Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

Phoenix Rising

Phoenix Rising

in truth, there is naught here but silence, the
hooting of a morning owl, the chirp of birds, soon
departing the summer’s blistering heat for
cooler climes
the crash and bang of garbage trucks hoisting
heavy containers, returning them to rest with
thundering cacophony
do you want honesty? or do you want prose?
I’ve one or the other, offering you the choice
my head aches with compare and despair
as we all must at one time or another
succumbing to what I do is trash compared to rest of
the world’s victorious accomplishments
I’m nothing more than an unworthy, spewing forth the
words of my heart, never measuring up to the least
of denizens, words and art are but poor cousins to
corporate jobs and social butterflies, those I
envy from afar and without humility beg to
be better than, knowing words and art will
live on when they are but dust in their graves

bitterness has no place in the poet’s vocabulary
a useless, spiteful drink served with poisonous intent
when I compare my art to his good looks
his social standing, or her charms and devices
or their high-priced jobs in a world I’ve chosen
left well behind, to sit here morning after morning
in the cool pre-summer breeze and quiet, and
reflect, as a poet I strive to do, reflect on this
my gift to humanity, my release, my beauty
my inner self revealed to you for your perusal
perhaps, with sharpened knife and hateful
thrust, you shred me to pieces, though like the Phoenix
I write again and again, you cannot destroy
what god sends through me

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