Poetry Camp (February)
Fox-Trot-9

Day 6: Find My Words

I have not what I used to have,
   The time and place I have not found,
And so I've nothing left to save
   Worth saving from the ceaseless round
   Of constant interruptions bound
      Upon my weary muse like chains.

My parents eat up what remains
   Of my dear time to get things done;
My words become the captive grains
   Of inspirations seized upon
   But never written, one by one,
      Upon the blank and waiting page.

And so I curse the night and rage
   Against th' absurdity of all
My efforts to complete and gauge
   The lines I write; and so I fall
   Into the ceaseless trap and sprawl
      Of constant evil interruptions!

And so my words fall to destructions
   Great and so manifold; and so
I rage and quake in such eruptions
   As never pierced a heart with woe
   Than this here poet's in the throw
      And toss of abject agony!

My poet's soul is poverty,
   And all the words I use to hold
The glimmer of my thoughts shall be
   Another line of verse untold,
   Another glimmer lost in the fold
      Of ordinary friggin' life!

And so I write on through the strife
   That hollows out my soul with pain,
And so endure that ceaseless knife
   That scrawls its poetries in plain
   And simple words, and so again
      Reclaim the words I used to have!

(To be continued . . .)

A/N: For those of you who have nagging parents, you probably know what this feels like. We writers are a harried bunch!