Poetry’s Cry

Pardon my use of the word "whore" if it offends you, but part of the intent behind using this word rather than others deals with how God relates to the Church.

Two-twenty rolls around and I’m still confusion-bound,
Mind - holding facts like a fist of sand,
Poetry - barren and weak like end rhymes’ slant,
Sound creativity used to flow with my words hand-in-hand.
But good ideas slip away
And my eyes glaze as my mind begins to fade,
Deadline coming quickly, in fact, it’s today.
If only I knew what to say, success – an illusion’s hound.

There’s much to write, but less is more.
Most material is useless, making writing a chore.
When writing is not for love, it becomes the poet’s whore.
Stop whoring my passion; true poetry’s roar.

If you’re silent on the subject, let down the pen and read.
Go to bed, save the words, that’s what poetry needs.

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