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Click hereShe sits in her room,
pen and paper at hand,
afraid that her missives
are nothing but bland.
Emotions unbridled
but no ink will flow;
She’s so much to say
that no one will know.
She can’t find her voice,
her feelings, her words.
Where is that harmony
written in thirds?
She’s anxious to write
a poem that will please
the others who seem
to write with such ease.
What is a poem?
she asks in the dark.
Inspiration alludes her;
she waits for the spark
to burst into flame
and swirl in her mind.
Instead she just sits,
her thoughts undefined.
Soon all her scribbles
begin to make sense,
her sentences still
in imperfect tense.
But maybe her scrawl
will turn into verse
clever enough to
break this damn curse.
With structure and cadence,
some meter and rhyme,
maybe the critics
will like it this time.
She logs on the ’net
to post it before
her courage fails and
she deletes it once more.
Next morning she wakes
and pulls up the site
certain she’d read
of the critics delight.
But to her dismay
they hated each phrase
Her work had received
not one word of praise.
Forlorn and depressed
she knew what to do:
She wrote a haiku
to bid them adieu;
Swallowed her pride
with a bottle of red;
Pulled out a Luger
and shot herself dead!
----------------------------------
Farewell Haiku
So depressed am I.
Your displeasure cuts too deep.
You hate me. Me too.
This poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 37,500 poems.
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he said rather meekly, in one voice, in another:
Somehow I expected more of you
like whipping the shit out of the critics
Instead of taking the cowards way out
Perhaps, with a little more...
Oh, never mind, go to bed 1201, dream about the horses again
Good rhythm and timing, probably took longer to write than it would first appear. Nice work. Not quite a 100, but I fear to give it any less. :)
what an lovely sense of humor!! very nice Miss O
no thermothingie here ;)