How can I
say,
what I want
to say,
without
really knowing,
what it is I
want to say,
and be coherent
and relatable
to those
that matter?
The flowery
language
I keep using
is making me
nauseous. I
don’t want to
write
another poem slathered
in pretension
and soaked in
profundity.
I’m not even
sure that I want
it to
matter, considering the
transitory
nature of things,
the state of
flux and change
so constant
all the time; would
it matter?
A poem
carved into a stone
will
eventually fade with the
passage of
time, even granite
will give up
the etched words
to the
stalking ravages of
progress.
The superfluous
words,
crowding the
edges of my brain,
want to fit
and fill this page,
but they are
meaningless and
trite, signifying
absolutely
nothing.
The meaning
I mean to
mean is
without meaning.
I suppose I
should have known
what I
wanted to say before I got
this far
along, before I ever even
got to the
end.
Poetry is
hard.
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