In
fourteen lines, a poet's mind may bend
Repeatedly, around a single thought
And with
her own emotions she'll contend
While contemplating what past work has wrought
Alone, in black, she sits beneath the bell
Concerned about what's suitable to write
She's once or twice been told to go to hell
And doesn't want to repeat that tonight
Indifferent, the world around her flows
With love and play, with mourning and with strife
In indecision her frustration grows
Why is writing not as smooth as life?
Frustration overwhelmed, she grabs her pen
She'll write the damn thing, see what happens then!
#21 :: 11.05.01