26/09/19

Awed by your apparent inability to listen and unwillingness to understand
I wonder how we can possibly be of the same species.
Maybe we’re not.

I don’t want to write for you

I don’t want to write for you.
I want to write for me. For mine.

I don’t want to lose mine. Me.
But I’m loving becoming us. Becoming we.

I don’t want you to be my muse.
Muses are fickle things. You and I endure. 

I don’t want you to be my inspiration.
Inspiration is fleeting; once caught, lost.

I don’t want to capture you in words.
You transcend my vocabulary.  My thesaurus of thought and feeling.

[29/12/18]

Backed up

“You’ve got to get a poem out,” I tell myself in bed.
“Your thoughts are stale, stagnant, and congested in your head.
Your constipated consonants are backing up your bowels.
Your deficiency in assonance: a stomach-full vowels.
Your apathetic rhetoric is sounding rather tired;
Today’s a day to hope and pray that you might be inspired.”

“You’ve got to get a poem out,” I tell myself in bed.
But I’m not sure it works like that, so let me sleep instead.

[29/12/18]