Beauty from the Beast

Whatever you have to say about my poetry
remember that you are speaking of a disaster
a train gone off the tracks, exloding in a
horrific collision of words and fire.

Remember that these tiny sets of
prose and etiquettely stitched syllables
are the bent wreckage
of derailed creativity, crumbled, crushed.

I wanted so badly to be an artist
painting to the beat of a metronome
tick - a story, tock - a poem
the clock rings twelve it's time to go.

Instead I was a housefire
coughing smoke from burnt lungs
which happened to touch a page
and though the edges curled,
the words flowed like flames.

I wanted so badly to be an artist
not this mess of contorted creativity
balancing on the brink of salvation
before the oncoming train
of self-annihilation artwork.

It is only now,
(that this is not my choice)
with my hand wrapped around
the conductors' baton,
I think I might have caught a glimpse,
of Da'Vinci's mi-
Goodbye.