posted November 13, 2002 08:20 AM
The Poem A title. Lines, neatly stacked.
Words. Often they rhyme.
A theme emerges. How well articulated!
Written, re-written, polished, it shines!
I pray that none of these my poems will make.
Let my mind, heart, soul, boil out into a quivering hand
And in that hand let there be clutched some writing implement
Clutched with all my might as if with me 'twas born
There is ye exit my thoughts, out, Out
Damn ye Boil Out!
Nay, 'twill not boil out
My magnificent mind, crafted by deamons, angels, saints, madmen
Magnificent in its need, lack, want and hunger
Corrupt. Now the mind wants the straight line
A beginning, an end, a uniform, - a dread.
Here I rage, I cry out, I pray, I doubt
Look again.
At the top: a title. Content: neat five line stacks.
Punctuation perfect; here comes a full stop.
Rescue me from myself.
Let not this mind speak out
Let it screech, roar, rant and rave.
Save it from contentment
Feed it on the Self
My mind will begin anew, but here this poem must end.
Lindaland
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posted November 13, 2002 08:20 AM
posted November 13, 2002 09:41 PM
