I wondered what became of those
poems I hid, tucked away
in different parts of my body.
There was the poem about
scraping my finger as a kid,
hidden on a knuckle,
and a poem about the pencil
lead stuck below my eye
from the third grade.
Everyday I'd pull one out
from my heart, and innocently
wonder where it had
come from... a whisper,
so to speak, that I could
hear so clearly
until, wanting them to come
out just a little better,
I took a "workshop" from
a pro, and didn't write
a poem again.
P.S. If you are wondering what the drawing has to do with the poem... well, don't waste your time. Other than one being done right after the other one, they are very distant relatives... by marriage, perhaps.
2 comments:
I loved your poem! H.
Not everyone will like what you have to say
Some will think your thoughts are too cliché
Others point out your lack of insight
Or over indulgence in something so contrite
How could you be so predictable?
Writing something so abominable
Not a clever catch phase or a memorable word
That one is still reading this seems just absurd
Rhyming couplets how passé
Common stuff of everyday
Gets so old and doesn’t really impress
Lacking a certain sophisticated finesse
Some think that one day I will learn to write with wit
Could just be me, but most critics are full of. . . advice.
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