Stop writing poems about words
In darkness, scrawling notes that can’t wait till morning
Aspiring for perfection in seconds, in thirds
With embellishments, stop your adorning
Scribble on cards beside creaking beds
Gifts pushing through subconscious gray
Onto a pad once too new to embed
And tarnish with ink’s disarray
But write in the dark so each word ‘fore the last fades
Refine in the sunup of morrow
Immediate gain is pernicious charade
Leading only to anguish and sorrow