What happened in the woods

I drank from the cupof the flowing stream of verseand was thus poisonedwith the charms of what can bein one's imagination

Posthumous

Perhaps all my wordswill be cherished when I'm goneaging like fine wine…Appreciation in death'sthe tragedy of poets

Legacy

Someday they'll turn to dust forgotten as though never written with the brief passion that is life itself'all sound and fury, signifying nothing'Pages consumed by the earthas the body will be, come slumberWill it then signify something, Will it then even matter?Will you then remember what I wrote?Letting the record of my soul play in…

Advertisement

The imprisoned

scrape scrape scrapethe dusty floor; some word or othermay my fingernail secureperhaps tainted, or dirty, or obscurebut I need my words, my only curefor 'tis intolerable, being uninspired thusI am a prisoner in need of verseso should you hear mescrape scrape scrapeon all fours, in the dust, at odd hoursno dignity, and great faithin mediocre…

Writer’s Block

My words are barrentheir cracks run deepand nothing grows in such heathen debris I replaced structurewith dry blank verse (or what I tend to callnonsense by amateurs)Inspiration- you slut,are you in coffee houseswith ashen cigarette butts amid poet-sleeved blouses?Tell me you're not so literalor that you have a type-no choice for me but to belittlemyself…