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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
