Huh!
You thought it would be easy!
After all, wasn't your brain firing off
in a trillion different places just then?
Wasn't emotion surging through you
like a hurricane through Florida?
But now, sitting as you do,
at your keyboard
the ghosts have vacated
the brain has frozen
the s-urge is no more!
And all that's left
is a sickening suspense
a diary of unfinished thoughts
a mausoleum of hidden decay
an unresolved tragedy
a gaping wound
with no chance of healing.
Huh!
Go home!
It's all over
for now
Settle yourself
Find something else
to do
You should know by now
it's all over
long, long before
you realize.
Forget my advice
When it all gets too much
curse loudly into the wind
The ghosts will pick it up
and torment someone else instead
We hope.
Just don't
don't write a poem
Don't consecrate
the sacrilege
with your ritual of
fine words and provoking metaphors
Such symbols are wasted
in the wasteland of phantom emotions
Oh, but what the hell
If you must
then write
write a poem
when it all gets too much.
