Friday, July 4, 2014

SERIOUS PROBLEM WITH POETRY

Bereft of all—by now
but my 
own small

and dark 
motivated 
stabs at thought

I confess; I've become abusive 
again
of words—

beautiful 
stupid
lugubrious words—
 
the way 
they let loose
and sluice 

down to fill
in easy—each 
of the plenty of gaps 

left—in the space 
where I live 
and used

to laugh 
more often.

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