was going to write,
about rain....
falling in torrents,
outside my door.
but i feel if i write,
another rain poem.
i may just drown...
in the wet wistfulness,
of it all.
then i thought to write,
about my family
and my home...
how we, while not perfect,
seem to muddle on through.
but on reflection,
that might be,
as boring to you
as it is to me...
it's been done,
to with an inch
of it's happy, humdrum
life.
i could write of past angst.
pour out my damaged soul,
like a child with a macbre
show and tell.
or i could write,
how i fought,
so very hard,
to recover my self
i could write about items,
of sentimental import,
on the **** mantle shelf.
perhaps,
i just string together,
some,
mismatched words
and call it experimental.
run some syllables,
five, seven, five, together.
claim it's a hiaku.
write a detailed description
of you,
as you sit reading
the paper,
hair unkempt,
more salt than pepper,
brow slightly furrowed,
glasses a'perch,
your battered nose
and the crisp rustling
of the paper,
the ink smudging, your fingertips and cheekbones
but all these...
words and phrases,
descriptive and thoughtful.
are really just,
redundant drivel
my mind sneezing,
syllabalitic snot....
is this repetitive...
guff and garbage.
the best i've got...
geez louise i hope not...
