| | It's hard to write in your head, walking
under steel bridges, the dog pulling, listless,
to his own poetic endeavors ... your eyes
dribbling with tears ... forgetting the lines.
Not so easy, either, sitting in a train watching
Girls who watch other men, over the margins
of books, whose pages never turn, whose lonely
word remain unread and idle.
What should a poem say, after all, when
the greatest poets are the cruelest liars?
When will a poem earn the distinction, the honor,
the right to be shot and killed in the streets?
No, not easy to write at home, unless your hand sobs
in ink, only when it should be doing something productive.
A true poet will be read by everyone, when he dies,
But understood only by strangers and lovers ...
Because they are also lonely, and all so useless. |
| | Posted 4/14/2006 1:00 PM - 26 Views - 4 eProps - 3 comments
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