a sixteen old soul says she understands, being a poet is not planned, forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time, he made love to a virginal white papyrus with muscles trembling, body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring, eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots
what possessed the wrist veins to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain, in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches, what was he thinking
was he thinking?
that it was an ejection that it was an ******* that it was a tribulation expiation that it was a tribute explanation?
that it was an injection that it was a circumspection inspection that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion excising an infection with a written genuflection?
try, but no might, the first is subsumed by the thousands that followed dutifully though his one poem flawless, expertly recalled, it will always be the next, and unplanned just like this one too
who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead, with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker, who is not answering a query relentless is this his plan, his appointment, is this his flawed excellence, is this his imperfect penance perpetual?
knowing well and full now
the unplanned is his plan, it’s his faceted flaws that refract his coloraturas
~~
upon this he reflects, praying that god protect the young poets from planning ____ https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned