If I wanted to live forever
It must be just so I can read all the poems yet to be written
And all the past greats that I’ve missed so far
And so that I may write
And write
And write, write,
Write until the universe ends with a whimper,
Both it and myself becoming silent, together,
As one
.
July 21 – 23, 2025
Under bright round moon
Rivers of words flow again:
Never surrender
Often
I look back at old writing
Of days, weeks, or months ago
And can only cringe
In embarrassment or shame
But then, sometimes
I can look back at those same verses
Days, weeks, or months past
And see them differently
…
“Write!” I plead with myself
“Write!”
Write, and take in all that is seeping from these cracked masks
and loosely clawed fingers attached to…
Words escape today
Stanzas run the other way
Is there nothing left?
Re-reading calmly:
poems written months ago
feel like yesterday
Old words remembered:
today they make me wonder
if I’ll ever change
Poems elusive,
poems that will never be:
tonight I mourn them
(On expression never served.)
Sometimes
No, often
The words come of their own accord
Unsummoned
But still so welcome
I give them a home
A nest to rest in
…
Many anxious evenings
I want to burn every word I’ve written
…
Over a great bonfire of massive flames
Reaching for the atmosphere
Dreaming of visiting the stars
…
I’m sick of poems
I’m sick of feeling like I’m whining
I’m sick of fear
I’m sick of caring
I’m sick to death of me and all my bullshit
Something’s gotta change
So let’s change
February 20, 2025