Is It Coffee In The Blood
I don’t understand what the hell’s going on,
the pressure boils over and makes spoken song.
Something has struck at the side of my mind.
Now I know why a poet is found
distracting this pressure with basic desire
rebuilding the dam using sexual power.
Tonight I could break, tonight I could die,
tonight is when I can no longer ask why.
But what is this need that impels me to write
what is this need I find I must fight?
Why must I wander, lost and alone,
why must I wander, and verbally roam?
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