Thursday, March 28, 2013

Poet (Poem)


All the poetry has been written
All the couplets have
All the rhymes made.
All the imagery set.
All the beats beaten to death.

And I ask myself,
what am I to do here.

I will write no sonnets.
Shakespeare won by
just a couple hundred years.
Romances and ideal love
its best left Rosetti
and Shelley.

Not in images but in
words, said William.
But my dear doctor,
how will I ever say what I feel

if all the words have been taken already?

I am no Eliot, nor shall I ever be.
Frost escapes me.
Ginsberg eludes me.
Plath is way too dark

The stone has been cast
and it has been eroded by a
millenia of single letters.
A, B, C. . .

What am I doing here?
I should have been an engineer.

Or a painter.
A painter can mix colors, make
them new.

But what about me?
Recycled isn’t new.
The cliché is not a work of

Only the first really wins,
the second just follows behind.
And wishes he had tried harder.
Just a little.
Maybe a push.

Bring me refreshing,
and I shall give you
something written a century ago.

I should have been a doctor,
Right William?

Or is it just me?


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