Portrait Of A Poet

I once stood unknowing, unaffected, untouched

and uninspired

by their brilliance: words sprinkled

on a canvas

abstract

in their meaning and obsolete in their influence.

I had no connection to their worth

as they were strangers to my intelligence.

To be honest, I found them quiet boring

and to me they were just whoring

for interpretation.
They, the words, were dressed up in tight similes

with high heeled diction

cruising around the boulevard of my mind

telling me that they had what I needed

but it would cost me inspiration

for a good time and my complete heart

for a really good time
The poets were their pimps

and these hustlers, the words, worked hard

to get my attention but I avoided

their temptation

as I refused to be just another john

desperate enough for quickie thought

from a meaningless stanza

until one day I saw those words

and their pimps
cry.
One day I begin to see them

dance the language of love,

orchestrate the sound of death

and sing the blues of injustice
yes,
I saw deeper and behind the overdone

make-up of meter and begin to understand

their demand.

They weren’t just splattered any longer–

they were arts of genius who finally lured

me into a mind seduction that stroked

my thoughts and inspired my emotions.
I asked how I too could be a pimp

But I already had become one because they, the words,

started belonging to me.

I became them and they became me

framed together in illustrations of relevance.
Now I am a portrait of a poet

So hang me up and enjoy me,

marvel at the texture of my lyrical voice,

capture the brightness of my sentence structure

and admire the fortitude of my emotion
because my own words have painted me

and now I art-iculate this poetic romance

for the world to see.

Tarringo T. Vaughan