Not This Disease

"You're a poet, Harry!"

Another coffee shop, 
A warm cup and company
Bodies, voices, faces, stories
Reminders that the world is still here
My haunt where words come slowly

Then, lyrics.
No prose, just meter and verse
Creation in reverse, buried first
From the dirt sprouts 
The gleam of singing bones

Goddammit—pull the reins
Paragraphs, please, not this disease
“You prayed, I gave.” 
She says
“Why question the sun’s rays?”

Aaagh, fuck Kenton and Davis
Fuck improvisation, syncopation
Curse my father’s trumpet, my mother’s lungs
Damn my blue note origins
I don’t want to be bullets fired from poets’ guns

Heeding the call comes 
In fits and leaps
And oh, how I love to hate the fight
The bleeding always 
Somewhere between clot and flow

Bonus: For the Love of Lyrics

Some days are honest, some days are not
Some days, you’re thankful for what you’ve got
Some days, you wake up in the army
And some days, it’s the enemy

—U2, Some Days Are Better Than Others