This One Last Time (Poetry)

I tried to give up recently
swore not to write another word
the rhymes are old — worn out like me
I’ve grown quite literally absurd
it’s time to water down the ink
and simply drown the urge to think

But it’s a drug — a need — a sop
and it’s too often all I’ve got
when madness spills it is the mop
that cleans the mind — expunges rot
and sanitizes on the page
the clots of hurt and puddled rage

It is the safety valve for stress
this frantic scribble reason knows
is just hot air — these lines confess
to some vague hope that comes and goes
and dreams in terms of poetry
the soul might dance and be set free

Such myths can soothe far more than wine
and habit reaches for the pen
thus I indulge this one last time
and loose the dammed-up stream again
like blood and sweat from every pore
that nagging voice I can’t ignore