There's too damn many poems about writing;
Each self-appointed poet seems to think
His thoughts about his thoughts are worth the lighting
Of the oil, and of the spilling of his ink.
And when the subject's lack of inspiration,
a non-subject, God damn, that's even worse;
It's masturbation sans imagination,
A one-man circle-jerk, tugged out in verse.
Don't tell me how your soul's springs have gone dusty;
Put down the pen and slowly back away.
Go for a walk. Get drunk. Pull out your trusty
Black book, and get yourself something to say.
But if you're whining 'bout your poet's spirit
Gone slack--shut up. Nobody wants to hear it.
1 comment:
What can I say? Perfectly phrased. I have to chuckle, finding myself intimidated by its frankness, feeling guilty of whining--and thinking how you probably wrote it to yourself, as I have often sternly admonished myself.
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