My entire existence could be lived in the fast lane,
but an anchor weighs heavy from my mind.
So long ago I could have made it to the top,
but my confidence suffers from vertigo.
I could write a masterpiece tomorrow,
but my pen is resting for today.
I am not even sure what a poem is any more,
just a plethora of self absorbed feelings,
written in a form to entice and to fish,
for a sympathetic reader.
Oh what tone or form to write in?
Just because I can see a spider do I really need to spout a haiku?
Waiting, watching still
eyes reflecting potential
a trap is soon set.
Can you be a genius without knowing any answers?
No more questions
just rambling metaphors,
Obscure thoughts tumbling, creeping
nay, seeping through holes in head and ears.
Disguised as smoke, intruding on fresh lungs.
Overpowering emphasis on cleverness.
A cough carries a warning.
Mini mono verse may play out the finale,
like carrying balls in a wheelbarrow.
But still I have never written a poem.
Snap pen hard,
thoughts are marred,
dreams discard,
hate bombard,
life's backyard.
Heaven sent?
Me? Repent?
Anger vent!
Thoughts are spent,
dark descent.
