29 Nov 2018 poem

Poem A Day For A Year

Each day there are poems in my head,
until I write them into reality.

Reality does not accept all of the poems
with a smile and open arms.

The page is not a page,
but a white word-processing screen.

Thus, ink is not ink,
just the manipulation of RGB light patterns.

Once a month, my poetry bends the stars
to a new trajectory.

No. That is just so much overblown ego.
A hazard of loving one’s own words, too much.

Consider all the verse
the back-space key annihilates:

the blank page achieving the victory of a poem
is a battlefield strewn with the invisible dead parts of speech.


copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney

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