What would the universe care if there is one more mediocre poem out there?

caitlin-driscoll Poems

Today, like almost every other day, I thought to myself, "maybe I'll write today" And, though like every other time the thought passed through my mind I scoffed at it, I actually decided it might be worth it I looked around, found paper in my favorite yellow folder, and was almost ready Then I remembered one of the most important pieces, the pencil The only way I'd get anything to come alive, instead of distracting myself and turning this almost poem into a paper airplane Here's the irony my friend; I couldn't find one I looked and looked for a while but just couldn't find one Sure, I found pens, but I'm a pencil purist, or perhaps I don't have the courage to write in pen Yet, for some unknown reason I became determined, and by a stroke of luck I found a pencil, hidden beneath a broken painting in the corner of the room Eureka!, Aha!, and any other exclamation that may fit I sat on the bed, got close to the papers, as always with my once typical writer's stance, clutched the instrument in my hand, and soon found the mechanical devil had no lead Was the universe sending a sign? I really thought so I thought some greater force wanted me to just stop, really quit for good this time Then I kind of realized something; What does the universe care if I write a bad poem or not? No, it wouldn't So I got up and looked again And ya know what? It didn't take so long to find the second pencil, it was right where I found the first one It had plenty of lead in it too, enough to write maybe ten more poems, good or bad The eraser is wearing thin though, a reminder of my past mistakes This isn't easy There are tears on the paper Like little oceans trying to get in the way Like this poem is going to go down like the Titanic But this poem isn't the Titanic It wasn't thought to be beautiful and revolutionary when first created, I knew it would be mediocre at best And if this poem goes crashing down it won't be a travesty, and millions won't be hurt No, I'll just frown a bit Also, I'm hoping this poem gets to where it needs to, unlike the Titanic My hand is shaking as I write this nothingness down The evidence is in my bad handwriting And this page that was so crisp and clean before is wrinkled, smudged, and defaced And a little damp And do you know how I feel now that it's coming to a close? A little better I decided not to rip this one up