There are days I want to quit my poetry

Then I have to ask the question “why?”

It seems no one really reads it much

No one really cares

It seems if there’s no wild video attached

Nothing that catches stares

Then it is to be avoided, discarded


We can’t be wasting time with things that don’t waste our time


I must ask the question “Why?” again

But this time for why I write to begin




See, I get to play with words

I get to express my joys

Wrestle with concerns

I guess it really doesn’t matter if it’s read or not

Though it would be nice to see who’s in the same lot


As I


I sit here and release a sigh

That seems to come from a deeper place

I wonder if my soul, my face

Will ever find what it’s meant to be looking for

A random line, a menial chore

All these things seem to break into the existence

A copied lung, a bleak resistance

I go dwelling in worlds I know nothing about

Places where quiet, not screams or shouts

Tend to draw the most attention


Do you ever sense the power of tension?


I surely do. Every day.

It seems to be the life, the way

Of living life like there is no tomorrow

6 Comments Add yours

  1. magicquill17 says:

    I can relate to this but never tried to put this in words. Thank you for conveying this feeling so eloquently.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you for the great comment. I’m glad it spoke to you 😊

      Liked by 1 person

  2. It certainly resonates with me, and exactly as you have expressed. I once didn’t make my work public in any way and only had the personal benefit of writing. For me, the reason for the extra effort (publishers/internet) is that I hope someone else might get something from my work, whatever that may be, as I get from yours. Speaking of, the dwelling and the quiet, your search and the contradictions of living, a beautiful thoughtful piece.


    1. Thanks Steve. I’m glad you make that extra effort because I get a lot from your work.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. My pleasure and thank you.


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