A Poet Once

Erratic thoughts of a disillusioned poet?  Aren't all poets disillusioned? 
Do we not find beauty in things that others find no beauty in?  Can we not find ugliness and despair in things that comfort others?  Do we not search for the glory of righteousness in words that soothe the soul and warm the heart?  We create a life of imagery out of words, not so much for others to enjoy, but for ourselves to live.  Yes, I think all poets are disillusioned.

You may say that everything I just mentioned would all be an  illusion; that I'm living in an illusioned world- that nothing is what it seems.  Ah, but if I can see what others cannot then wouldn't that mean that I'm now disillusioned?

Our sight is no longer blinded by the stereotypical way people are suppose to see things.  Our true eyes are now open for we write from the heart.  We are free from illusion - we see the world as it was - as it is.  We see through eyes that have been branded "Poet."

Today is a black day
     but I will wear red.
Yesterday was a black day
     but I wore green.
Maybe tomorrow will be an orange day
     so I can wear black.

I died today
just a little
I closed my eyes
and just let go
That piece of me
that's been holding on
flew away
with the breeze
I said goodbye
and died
just a little
Forgiveness eludes me
like death
we play games
but I closed my eyes
and just let go
I sighed relief
as that last piece
flew away
Fogiveness bowed
and said hello.

Why you can smell the rain before it's here?

          Why birds sing at night?

Why red means stop and green means go?