A poem for poetry class.
Unwritten
In the corner it sat, gazing with force.
I hadn't noticed it until now.
“What?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Another late night, my darling, my dear.”
“Cut the crap out, it won't help me here.”
I yawned and lay back, my mind hazy and distant.
I'd been knocked out by jet lag in less than an instant.
Four hours less of the sleep I adore
my body had felt like a tossed apple core.
“Your stamina ain't coming back my good son.”
“Why do you torment me?” I asked, my patience waning.
“Tell me, then, buddy. How else you'll get done?”
I gathered the rest of sense I had remaining.
It was right, I supposed, but that didn't help any.
My talent right then would cost less than a penny.
“Tomorrow,” I said, hoping sleep would come fast.
But poetry grinned, knowing that wouldn't last.
“You'll wake up again, you always do.”
It was right, this I knew, but I kept up the act.
Perhaps I could trick my stamina back.
A good night or two, with no interruptions.
My mind would be fresh as a honey baked muffin.
Yet still it watched me, its hard eyes impassive.
“What? What do you want?” I snapped.
“Write your poetry.” It chided, a small mother hen.
I scampered around like a pig in its pen.
It had me, I knew, I couldn't escape.
So I struggled to swim, pen-first in the lake.
Before you I stand
This work broken and torn
But poetry did it, couldn't wait till the morn.
So listen real close like you'd listen in mass.
I'll tell you the key to success in this class.
Never write when your mind is all shambled and torn,
never write when your brain is all grated and worn.
For unless you wish to compose such a broken,
shattered and withered and burned up poem spoken
with pungent and foul rhyming galore
I'd suggest that you write when it isn't a chore.
That's all, that's it, I've written enough.
I hope you enjoyed all my meaningless fluff.
Anchored Soul Community Member 
|
|
