Author

I wish I had a poem in my head
To write out on this page, so blank, so white;
I have a line or two, which you have read,
And now I'm empty, unhappily light.
I ought to be inspired, since I am,
In my own life, ecstatic, full of thrills.
And yet this poem doesn't give a damn
It won't let me record those heats and chills.
Instead it wants to ramble on and on
About itself, and how I should have written.
If poems were like people, and could fawn,
I'd say that this one simply was self-smitten.
And yet I let it write itself this way
So who's to blame? I really could not say.