Fool, who do you think you are,
with work a-piled,
bills and papers two stacks deep,
that you could write poetry
while others soundly sleep?
Fool, by what god-given right,
by what impulse idiotic
do you have leave to scribble words
that tarnish the evening, disturb the night?
Fool, what do you think you know,
what voices do you hear,
that raise you up, disturb your flows,
compelling you to write without fear?
Foolish thoughts, ghostly mind noises,
incomplete visions of words unspoken,
“I love you” uttered but once or twice,
and then as just a token, penance for what?
Fool wakes up screaming
“I do do love you,”
but you cannot hear yourself,
cause you confess to caring, lacking
So, lest the world I do wake,
poetry by night, I give and take,
writ in quiet silence, and do not disturb
my hauntings, by it
somewhat soothed, less perturbed
**** stuff from my yout