Birth of a Rebel Poet

I started verse in '85, and thought I was the thing, 

Drink it was my influence, the wild soak's rambling, 

Inspired by the lowlife image of Tom Waits, 

the anguished howl of punk rock's words, and Beat Generation greats.

I supped up all my Guinness, that dark black Irish stout, 

I quaffed back everything until the barman chucked me out.

I read Celine and Kerouac, and nothing really new,

Listened to the Stones and Doors, read some Rimbaud too.

Tried deranging senses with many drugs and drinks, 

Did no good for my writing as my head was down the sink.

I tried stream of consciousness, which wasn't quite effective, 

my free association of ideas, it verged on the selective.

I wrote about some women, my unrequited loves, 

I wrote about iron fists encased in velvet gloves.

Until one day, I took the notebooks, and cast them in the fire, 

the blue and white lined pages , died there upon the pyre.

The journals of my wasted years, toothless with no bite, 

Flew way up the chimney and out into the night.

( This was a recently found poem from twenty years ago, that I used to recite at open mic nights)