Flog the Poem
The poem sits like some wretched thing,
all good intentions and poor expressions.
Clumsy and loose
it looks like I spilt it on the page.
And I sigh.
I prod it here, and poke it there,
but it still just lays there.
Overflowing expressions are cut away,
trimmed, and chopped.
The bits flutter out my mind,
off the table.
And, hacked,
the poem lays there.
So I get out a whip and flog it,
carless and ruthless.
Whipping it into some kind of shape,
something less embarrassing.
Whipping it until the meaning is gone.
Mangled.
It is three poems now. Four, five,
six poems. Fragments.
Shards of truth that were never meant to be together.
Poetry by Blue River
Read 644 times
Written on 2009-03-02 at 06:21
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