I write not for the beauty of words.
They fail to do the world justice.
They were never meant to suffice,
Just be adequate enough to sate
The urge of neo-Adams to name
The world as they come in contact with it.
Because names are power; to give something
A name is to control it, to be able
To manipulate it, bend it to your will.
Call it natural phenomenon and shape
It with the mallet of science, logic’s hammer.
I write for the grotesque face of reality;
The Quasimodo that is existence.
It needs love too; some gentle hand
To caress it, lips to kiss it goodnight.
The evening has come; when I lay down
Next to my book of poems, my life,
I know I will not wake the next morning.
A. J. Hayes
Give a poet a pen