The Blues Poem by Quincey Burkhalter

Just like the blues feel
The raw
Painful chords
Jealousy
Injustice
Heartache
Drunken angst

I want my words to be
Beyond hurt
Whiskey fueled cynicism
Beyond smoke-filled rooms
Bleeding fingers
Beyond leaving
Not knowing where to go
Beyond holes in the pocket
Patches on torn hearts
Beyond tacks in worn out shoes
Sharp points, a constant reminder
Of mistakes that won’t leave me alone
Beyond selling a tooth
Filled with gold
Left with no ability
To chew leftover sentiment

I want my words to be the blues
Of losing a lover
That I didn’t know
Had been gone for years
I want my words to be the blues
Of mistakes made while living life
In a way that felt so damn good at the time
I want my words to be the blues
Of crying over hatred rightly directed at me
Of desperately trying to change the past
Without thinking of the future
Without remembering I have no control
Over what others feel

My words should be
Those Death Cell Blues
Sung through prison bars
Over the whining
Of harmonica lungs
The key of B flat
The key of dirt floor memory
Dusty pleasantries
Spoken in passing disharmony
Whining discordance
In words spoken and words meant

The words will be stolen
Words gambled
Thrown like dice
I’ll steal them
From men that hold onto words
Like pleasant reminiscence
Then spit them out
Like hot soup

I know the power of the blues
The power of emotion
Hot or cold
Fed to the ears
I want to write the blues
Of ear
Of souls
Of tearful gulps
The blues