His words do not stir much in the way of any intellectualistic theories <br />or understanding of what a poems construction should look like <br />or read. He writes as he lives his life, he writes with the blood <br />that he bleeds; with words like knives he cuts away at the meat, <br />leaving behind the bare bones of his more than potent seed. <br />He is not a farmer or a gardener, planting for a fall harvest in life, <br />he is but a poor ditch digger who has buried his pain with his strife; <br />in the cemented and asphalt covered streets of filth and rot. <br />Fully matured before he was ten, he’d been born on a mattress inhabited <br />by cockroaches and lice. He is the equivalent of a modern day Christ, <br />reciting his parables and sermons for all the sheep that have followed <br />the prophets of the churches commercially sanctified media doom. <br />He is you, he is me and through him we find the words to speak. He is <br />not a poet in the true sense of the definition, he is but a man <br />who carries his own cross in life and whose blood is on our hands…. <br /> <br />2008 ©<br /><br />Ted Sheridan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sacrificator-of-poetic-form/
