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,
So subjective, and passionate too.
But when did I write for them?