Writing Poetry Blues

 

Some nights I think

“what’s the use of it”

console myself with

the thought that somehow

all this shit

sickness, sex and song

does matter

and that I’ll have

a few words cut from

this cardboard life

to show for it.

 

then the morning

and I read the newspaper

about a man killed

from debris

falling from the heavens,

of 10,000 Bangladeshi’s

now bloated carcasses

courtesy of a monsoon

or

of a child

tossed from an overpass

onto the freeway below.

and it is all I can do

to get

one foot to follow the other

and hide my tears

from a god undeserving

as those silly questions

I ask myself

some nights.

 

 

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