I languish when my lines are lean.
(You poet pals know what I mean.)
The pen I push, the whole world uses;
where’s fairy dust and touch of muse’s?
I suffer when my words won’t rhyme.
As if I’d carried out a crime,
like cruel assassin stabbing Caesar
or crass and cowardly appeaser.
I worry when my verse won’t flow,
and poet’s passion will not glow.
John Keats said poems should flow freely,
like streams, sun’s rays or blood, ideally.
I freak out when my stanzas stink
of stagnant sweat or icky ink.
Like contraband, so shit to smuggle,
a rhymester’s life’s a sodding struggle!
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 29th, 2022 10:22
- Comment from author about the poem: for any poet friends who are experiencing lean times with lean lines
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 26
- Users favorite of this poem: Accidental Poet, arqios
Offline)
Comments3
Yes, yes, yes! It's just like that which you have put together so well, in rhyme!
Looks like you're on track to me Kevin. Don't think I've ever seen you not on track. But I do know the feeling when writer's block hits hard. I try to look at it as my muse is taking a well deserved break. 👍
Here, here! That was a poem with ideas dear. For when you bring that brocade to yon table. We cast aside all malice and fable. So struggle on and freely flow. Poet on for all to know.
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