The Desperate Poet

If Shakespeare himself be raised from his grave

There'd be no words for the emptiness I feel

I released the beast inside me, but it had gone tame

I rang the churchbells high on the hill, but no one

came

I try capturing images, but my camera is blind

And the stars that I reach for

Just the movieset of my mind

Is this pain in vain

That I feel

Or is real art

Made in this fashion

With passion

I don't know

I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it

My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not

fly

I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you

To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could

But this tune that I'm destroying

Shows there's nothing more annoying

Than a desperate, desperate poet, so it seems

I sign my name in blood, but it's not binding

I turn every stone, but I'm not finding anything

My pen should be on fire, but it's not igniting

Ready for war, I don't know what I'm fighting for

Is this wordsmith

Worth his salt

Or is it all just

Pages from a phrasebook

Who took the words

Out of my mouth

I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it

My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not

fly

I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you

To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could

But this tune that I'm destroying

Shows there's nothing more annoying

Than a desperate, desperate poet

I would sing of the loves that we all once knew

And the ones that we ended up with

Of the memories that you've buried so deep in the past

You start to wonder if they're only a myth

I would sing of the strong and all of the wrong

That they've wrought for the weak of the will

Of those who have nothing but a desperate embrace

To hold on to when the night's growing chill

I would sing of the false ones who have taken up rule

And the true ones who were burned at the stake

Of the ones who run free and the ones who enslave

Of an honest day's work and an unmarked grave

Of the Sun and the Earth and of fire and rain

Of longing and of power and of lust and of pain

A symphony of triumph for the day hope returns

Or a soundtrack to insanity when all the world burns!

Flame of creation all but dead

Still it burns however lightly

Would that I could see it burst again

Into a fire shining brightly

I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it

I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you

To deliver the goods

I'm a desperate poet, lost for words and I know it

My ink is dry, though I try, still my words will not

fly

I'm a desperate poet, and I know that I owe it to you

To deliver the goods, and I would, if I could

But this tune that I'm destroying

Shows there's nothing more annoying

Than a desperate, desperate poet