A small bit of hope
found in the most awkward
of ways
I'm contented
in my contempt
beside myself in asides
and I fan the flames of beauty
sometimes the words hang loosely
they appear thinly veiled in my mind
and yet, I question just whom writes the words
I feel that I've never written
a single poem in my life
I wonder just from whom
all the beautiful words flow
perhaps talent, or skill, or luck
or maybe just maybe, a spirit
who is all too happy
to use these idle hands.
Today the words won't come, easily
And, well, sometimes
I throw up my hands in defeat
because this poem is really terrible.