The Accidental Poet

Her verses

It is assumed

Stem from interest

Preference, perhaps

Former digestion

(With pensive chewing)

Verses of others sought out

Logical, she thinks

This conclusion

As poems, ragged, leak

Through her fingers

Yet poems, in her past

Simply passed

Across her life, haphazard

Some grabbed or strangled her

Breathtakingly kissed her neck

Others left her befuddled

Convinced, quite, of her obtuseness

Mundaneness, mediocrity

Incapable of such otherworldly

Creativity, evocative inspiration

These verses, hers

Were conjured

In extremity surpreme

She recalls when and why

Confoundedly, not how

In pain and isolation

Her screeching soul

Screamed out

Contorted and converted

Inself into expression

These verses, then

Lack planning

Rhythm, thyme, or –ameters

They ooze from festering wounds

Or burst, popped ripe pimples

Grow gently in forest glens

Protection from tempestuous storms

They may attack

Lightening from a clear sky

Hide stubborn in dark recess

Play coquetish peek-a-boo

Unwilling as promised, to undress

Her poems, perhaps

Once birthed

Begin, then to write her

Their future, as hers,

Uncertain

Together in limbo they hang

These verses are

Quite simply

Inexplicably

Her survival

Moment to moment

In this frightening

Here and now

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3 thoughts on “The Accidental Poet

  1. “Her poems, perhaps
    Once birthed
    Begin, then to write her…”

    This is how it seems for all poets I’ve known or read about who are terribly talented. You definitely cannot go back and just stop doing this “poetry thing”. This is you now.

    Like

    1. I realize now I’ve read this entire poem/verse incorrectly. And this verse that I put in quotes didn’t mean what I thought it meant. I’m sorry I hijacked it. It’s beautiful your way.

      Like

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