what shall they say of me?

@Uootem

If I should write, a thousand words and more,
and bleed on this empty page again.... with the ebony of thought
with silent voice... hopeless and bewitched, my fate... my destiny
as if this were all I could ever be... a troubadour of circumstance
what shall they say of me... when all is read and my pen lay dormant?

Were words to grow into catchy phrases that seek penitence,
in spite of me... my path of life... and this pen I hold
would they label me insane or poet... a madman or bard
since it is the ink that alone quenches my thirst?

The spirits of time-worn emotion beckon me to write
as they reckon with improbability, my need for expression.
and again this parched page drinks of me, the fluid of my soul
that form my words of diminished immortality, tainted reality of life.

With caring, will I forge a rhyme with rhythm and with style?
and will it spare me the looks of ridicule when I am misunderstood
so that I may slumber peacefully, trusting in the embrace of my craft,
and quieting the screams from within, that curse with such vulgarity.

I feel for my infected breed, every poet that ever lived for utterance
spreading words that humanity might not garner as truth.
such grievance to the oldest heed, this miserable human state.
when the poetic blood is just for letting, one more word must come.

Depart my hand, and adorn this world... I beseech the verse within.
hide behind obscuring visions, if you must... be silent, bashful dwelling dreams
glimpse modestly from the heart that sees through diffident stained window-eyes
reflecting crystal moonlight... where only darkness really exists.

Spanning time by ancient hieroglyphs that have no soul.. my words form a portal
to a place where the vision never fades in the misty shadows of time and space
but brings back the images to me when distant drums were heartbeats
and all that was real... truly existed... a brief moment only I suspect.

I am back to present for now... just another page has been spent
to capture the rambling introspection of my translucent consciousness
as I have inscribed again a thousand words and more,
to cope with that found in echoes... alas, what shall they say of me...?