Friday, August 20, 2010


I wonder how the poet feels
The morning after.
The passionate lines, inspired, genius,
were delicious then;
now they all sound sick
like lines from a child,
ideas from a book --
already thought of,
already done.
Does he throw them away?
or love them still
just for being alive?
For being from him?
Does he believe in himself --
in the merit of his mind?
Does he know what's good
or just write for the climb
he'll take back out
from the pit of his doubt
to the peak of passion
and whatever happens
the morning after?

1 comment:

  1. U inspire me to write my first poem in 6 years... its been a while! Nicely done!