Is Poetry the Reflection of Intimate Feelings
Comfortably sitting
at my wide oak desk
wearing vision glasses
that deflect blue light
from a computer
loaded to capacity...
I'm typing a novelty.
Is poetry the reflection
of intimate feelings,
or a teller of stories
somehow impersonal
or truly meaningful?
Moods dictate words
and they flow according
to taste and awareness,
some are rigged with foolishness,
many are the portrait of truthfulness.
I've spent a quarter
of my young life
dedicating myself
to a novel literature
invented by plausible instincts,
which proved to be accurate
to the extent of realization.
Having found no love,
besides affection,
I have ventured
into that world
of imagination
to fill the void
left by scars and regrets;
was it worth my time,
scratching this head,
searching for ideas
not very persuasive
and idealistic?
I've kept all the pieces of papers
I scribbled on in a hurry;
I could have filled
those library shelves,
and owned literary rights
that will expire after fifty years
from the date of my death
predestined to occur
in that golden age
never to be seen,
or be exalted by me.
Is poetry the reflection
of intimate feelings,
or the expression
of loners with heads
filled with awesome dreams...
seeking their identity shredded
by a fading memory
which rivals time?
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2021
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