Do you ever look back on your old work
And cringe?
Do you see the flowery attempts at depth
And quickly brush the pages away?
Do you feel from reading it the purpose with which you wrote it,
Or are you overwhelmed with 'how silly is sounds'?
The whole point of poetry in sound,
But if we cannot convey our intent in the framework
Do we risk falling into pop poetry?
Or is the framework a cage?
Five beat, seven, five
Accented, Unaccented
A title?
Dear God, only so many can go unnamed
Without driving us mad.

Rip out the pages?
Burn them?
Catharsis for not just a moment,
But days
Weeks
Maybe months.
But not forever.
One day, we will wonder-
Images dance in flashes through our minds
That word we hear
That smell
The way the rain falls through the leaves
Or light glints off leather book covers-
And not remember.
It will flit around our minds
Teasing, torturing
But we will never catch it
Because we will never be who we were.