I suppose this poem
Will be short.
That's all I have time for.
But poems don't work that way.
They have a life of their own.
And so today
I write a bad poem.
It is bad
Because I hold it close
And do not let
It have its head.
If I did,
It would pull me along
And keep me up until
All hours.
So there you go.
My apologies.
This poem is
No more than a space
Between two
More meaningful
Works...
But you see
Already, it has drawn me in.
I try to finish
But it holds me.
"I'm not done" it says.
It insists that we end well.
And to end well,
We must say something.
Damn!
But here I go!
I am ending this poem.
I won't live this way,
Enslaved to a tyrannical muse!
Ha!
So there!
The End!
And we haven't said a thing.
And it is miserable
And we both are sad.
But I suppose it is just as well.
I will sleep tonight
After I mourn
The loss of something
I don't know what
And never will.
Good night muse.
I love you.
"I love you too" he says.
Until tomorrow muse...I am sorry.
"It's OK. I understand"
I believe he is asleep now.
He really is a faithful friend.
I could not wish for better
And I am sorry
That I treat him so.
Truly, I am ashamed.
But tomorrow I will be better.
Tomorrow, I let him roam
In sunlit meadows
Where the wildflowers grow
And we'll spin a poem
That you'll remember.
And perhaps you'll like it so much
That you'll read it again and again.
And now I suppose
That I must be to sleep also.
Good night all.
God bless.
Until next time.
