Something real by Samuel Mack-Poole

Something Real:

By Samuel Mack-Poole

Sometimes I just want to accept the rush of energy,
Allow it to flow through me like a symphony, in synchrony with my (half-realised) epiphany.
Oh yes, I note it down in my poetical diary!

I let my pen dance across the paper, with no control, allowing my mind to express my soul.
My sole aim is to gain fame again and again, to actualise my many goals.
If there’s no rhyme or reason to my rhyme or reason, I feel like I’ve committed poetical treason,
As if I’ve worn a coat in the summer, boiling away in the wrong season.

I just feel the aural appeal is something that instills a sense thrill if applied with skill.
I feel like rhymes can kill, if they hit on something that’s really the real deal.

Sometimes I am frightened that my writing isn’t too exciting.
Like I regurgitate fake lines, like a dull star that no longer shines.
If no one listens, I feel like I’m a piece of gold that doesn’t glisten,
Doesn’t glitter, a striker who never scores, missing sitters,
Like I’m not fit to spit bars, like my lyrics are dead, sped, done, on the run,
Limply shot from a malfunctioning gun, a broken web improperly spun,
Shunned like a lustful nun, a terrible bore; no longer fun.

But like a boxer, I use my fear to inspire rhymes to delicate ears.
So, when the moment nears, I can induce an audience to tears,
Laughs and bitter smiles, my thoughts, not caught short but inspiring, of course.
I want my poetry to be literary sauce, shake some people’s poet on it in due course.

To be quoted shall allow my ego to be bloated, so my rhymes are not only sugar coated,
But the very sugar that coats a child’s imagination away from educational stagnation.
I want my rhymes to open minds, I hope you’ll find that will happen in time.
To be celebrated, it’ll allow me to be emancipated, free from restraint, a poetical saint,
Fast, faster, super sonic, shooting stars, racing cars, high tempo, rising to a loud crescendo!
The pendulum has swung, the momentum will stun, the frantic pace and rhythm of poetry wins the race, faster than the speed of light, causing caustic fright, in spite of the fact they’re not written out of spite.

Harness that plenty, that energy of the twenty twenty to the power of infinity, escape the shadow of your sin city, of self-pity and celebrate and eat cake and have it, too, for my poetry is about celebrating you!
Yes, you, that very you who made me me, so when the bell tolls, I know it’s for a part of me because you’re a portion of my identity.

Enjoy, yes enjoy these words, smile all the while, let’s raise the mood, and reconcile!
Yes reconcile your adult self with your inner child, your inner teen, young, bushy tailed and full of dreams! Ignorant, innocent, unaware that life isn’t all it seems.

Poesis, the art of making, but what kind of poetical cake are we baking?
I’ll have catharsis and pathos, mixed with absurdity and chaos, like a man in a pink suit in the middle of Lagos.
You might think that last line was a cheap rhyme, but you didn’t listen to the rhyme about life not being what it seems, because the pink suited man is the haters gonna hate internet meme!
Give me a paper and pen, and I’ll do it again, turn the world upside down, and put humpty together again.
Unfettered, never bettered, unshackled away from mocking cackles, nurse your mind, your imagination, put pen to paper and glorify your literary creation!