The Shallow Shore of a Lake

I feel too tired to write a poem.

Ordinarily it would be a task of some relief,

A break from the monotony of scholastic thought,

No matter how engaging.

The torrid rapids of emotional energy convalesce and pour themselves out on paper.

Staple shut, close the doors of hearty outflow,

Quench the reprobate inside my soul,

Satisfy ‘til better whole.

For not all do I publish.

Only the palatable stains left from manic feasting do I let loose.

Not for long will any man, woman, or child lay eyes on poems mine

Which lie forlorn in dusty piles.

Vigorous resistance I’ll face not,

Not Hemingway or Wolfe so future generations will care not.

And so my poems in sickness and distress will remain untouched.

Unchanged.

Disarrayed. 

And you’ll only ever see the poems which you’d understand.

For if you came to know the whole, the screams of inner swamps,

You’d not ask for a poem again from me.

I’m too tired to write a poem,

To write one right.

Ironically, those right poems will never see the light.

But I’ll give you a peek,

This shallow shore of a lake,

For I could not allow a deeper dive inside,

I couldn’t bear the airing of a private mind.