Poetry Factory
staring vacantly at space,
caught up in a wild chase,
conjuring up vague images
for my blank, empty pages;
damn old fool out for a spin,
unconcerned with any gain,
fumbling yet, always aiming
for some hidden meaning;
sometimes mere inspiration
but more often perspiration,
even plain self-immolation,
this silly poetic pretension;
tonight is a long, long night,
a tough and drawn out fight
with a tough, cruel adversary,
the masochist inside of me;
so why write, asks this voice,
and I reply, this is my choice,
a trail that I just have to follow
by rolling along with the flow;
wish I were a poetry factory
grinding on day after day,
not overworking this brain
dripping down the drain.
Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2007
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