"Is this what it's like?" I ask the old man.

"My young naive friend, if you weren't depressed,
you'd have nothing to write about at all."
The poets hand shakes as he drinks his gin.
"It's a romance you see, and you want it;
you crave it, and you need it to survive."
I shudder at the thought, who would want this?
What kind of bad person does that make me?
And if this twisted romance is to blame,
I must tell this man what is on my mind.

"Why then, do I have this wall? This mental
barrier blocking up my inner thoughts?"
I must have sounded like a little boy.
"It seems I have no angel, whispering
lines into my ear, and giving me hope.
And though to me your poems mean a lot,
they are not my words, and mean nothing now."
He stirs, and rests his glass on the table.

"You are tired of merely agreeing with
the lines of wiser men, and you wish that
it was you who made other people cry."
Though it may be cliche I know he's right.
"Tell me this, dear boy. When you tell them what
you are, do they take you seriously?"
I had a reputation for being
somewhat of a jester around these parts,
and when it came to my song writing heart,
musicians all around just laughed and waved.
"Perhaps you're afraid, of letting them know
there's something you care most deeply about.
And if they were amused by your attempt
at being a man with strong feelings, you'd
never be able to look at yourself,
not that it's easy for you to do now."

"Thats enough, thank you." I say in a tone,
that serves to say I'm uncomfortable
being analyzed by a drunk poet,
and though he may be right, I move away.
Though I'm compelled to return to this place,
The Chestnut Tree Cafe, to speak again
to a stranger who knows my life,
but not my name.

08/11/2007

Author's Note: I'm working on Part II at the moment

Posted on 08/11/2007
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