I find again the ink near blot.
Tiss hard to find a poet's thought.

Should words arise in labor's pain,
Ill then, to find it all in vain.

For on my quill, a writer's curse.
Beauty, death, decay and verse.

Delivered, naught a poet's child
But strings of words, jumbled, reviled.

The afterbirth and barren teats,
The paper penned, just bloody sheets.

12/17/2002

Posted on 12/17/2002
Copyright © 2024 Mary Ellen Smith