Archive
01/15/10 - (3)
For Ill or Naught
Tonight, I don't want to write, Just read what I've written all week, Review my prolific psyche's mediocre output
Of bullshit, sententious claptrap, horse-pucky fustian, And decide whether to get out of the business Or stay put, composing free-verse nontruths — lies.
And yet, as you, beguiled, seduced reader, can see, I've abnegated, abjured my avowed desire, By sullying this notebook page, despite my intention,
Allowing my obsession to get the better of me, Express itself, in every uncertain term, for ill or naught, Telling me that quitting isn't in my best interest,
Rather that writing is the life-blood of my continuity, The immediate means of my perpetuity, That now isn't the time to bring the cosmos to its knees,
Seize its complications' cogs, freeze its machinery, Obliterate what it is that I do so easily, compulsively. Tonight, I write as if forever were this poem.
01/15/10 - (3)
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