Poetry

Poetry is not easy.
Had not been, so many times.
Running daylong makes difficult forcing mind.
Yes, forcing to write
While thoughts in head
Whirl restlessly and chatter and cry;
Scavenging for even a shred of thought,
Is tiring, endless, boring too.

And then there’s “I”.
I can’t escape, it seems, this “I”.
It comes on pages all I write.
I’m all I write, and firmly so.
They say it’s wrong,
Indecent, crude
So subjective, and passionate too.
But when did I write for them?

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