Passion is me, the writer at the desk,
my blood scrawled on loose, horrible pages,
heart aflame, hair a tangled mess,
clouds of weed smoke locking my eyes
in a stare designed for the ages;
Passion is fighting through the fall,
no matter how hard I choose to veer,
or what harm could come too near,
what hypocrisy will catch my ancient sneer,
drowned in pot, echoed with cold beer.
Passion is being prepared to die.
Passion is the way I feel at night:
electric, wild eyes lit large by weird moonlight,
as me and you are tangled oh so close,
and you listen, and you try to understand
this mess known as myself.
Passion is the rain at night, that sound like
typing on thin glass, and you drive,
and you drive, and you drive,
all for some misbegotten hope
that you really know what it’s like to be alive
you have no idea what (anymore)
Passion is the blood, mixed with the ink,
how explosive, like how poetry will end:
fierce fire, then a blink…
— Jackson Williams.