Poet, Stay

Here I sit, so quiet, so tense.
People all round build a word-fence,
While I sit, writing my way
Out of my dungeon-esque stay.
Tis a dungeon joyous, yet unkind.
Tis the wondrous, pained dungeon of my mind.

Papers I've prepped, that others might learn
Some of the wisdom I'm pained to discern-
Wisdom that has been written in rhyme
Wisdom I've gained over painstaking time.
These papers, this time, I give to friends unknown
That their gain may, for my sins, atone.

I sit at a table, small and square.
I've not yet ordered my goodly fare,
When waitress makes her way to me,
I am relieved, God's daughter, to see.
The war inside a poetical mind...
One writer begs a chance to be kind.

She asks what I will have to eat,
But having just sat in my Muse-ful seat
I tell her a water, and a soda will do,
Until I decide what I wish to chew.
She nods and goes.  On menu I see
An option for delicious, house green chili.

She returns.  I tell her the tale.
Green chili for me.  It never fails
To please, politely, my palate-in-pain.
And palate, pleased, soothes my fevered brain.
Walking to get here, as I did today,
Was done, that my sanity will stay.

Time wears on, God's daughters three
Sit at a table adjacent to me.
After debating my wisdom, I turn,
And ask them if they'd like to learn
Just what a poet's been up to, of late.
They smile, and say, "Sure, that'd be great."

Though this last is a paraphrase,
They take one sip of liquid soul-praise,
And then, curious, start to read.
A writer, this writer, will always need
To plant what might be called "word-seed"
In any soul who's bled, or will ever bleed.

Another server, not my own,
Walks by.  Still feeling that I'm all alone,
I ask her if she would enjoy
Poetical thoughts to bring her more joy.
I am perplexed when she nods very shy.
It's just me, after all.  I am just a guy.

A separate creation I read from a page.
I know that she may gain older age
For the change in her psyche that surely will be.
Words that come from the heart of me
Ever cause movement in those who will hear.
When spoken, my words can oft draw a tear.

Poetic words have all been let go,
The changes in her, on her face, now show.
I ask her if she would like to keep
My words written.  She again nods at me.
I hand them over, not knowing why,
But feeling, again, what it feels like to try.

Much time later, God's daughters three
Have each read what was written by me.
They tell me good things. I'm feeling much better
Than when I trudged here in the soaking weather.
Soon I'll again brave pouring rain
Twill further the job of purging my stain.

Tis good I was here on this planet today.
Help has been given.  I choose to stay.

Adam Scott Campbell