LatinosUSA

Writing a poem a day might wind up killing me.
It causes my legs and hands to tingle,
While my shotty eyes strain to see,
Shifting in and out from clear to blurry
As my head buzzes, tweets, and jingles.
This story is such a perplexing mystery.

I’ve tried to quit my addiction
But I can’t.
I feel like something in my life is missing,
Like being on a beach without sand
Or listening to a symphony without a band,
If one may imagine such a thing.

I’ve been writing one poem a day for years,
No matter the situation, come what may,
Even as my own insanity nears.
On and on
Until my writing sees its glorious day
Or else I find my grave.

I’ve written thousands,
Yet have no awards,
No notes of cheer or golden medallions,
No dramatic score.
Still, I search to open the proper door.

Sometimes I question why I do this.
I’ve made little money,
Only slight recognition is all I get,
Not to mention the harsh criticism from my favorite honey,
While my whole family thinks I’m off in the head.

Should I quit, then where will I be?
A drunk sitting up on the couch?
A drift alone out on the high seas?
Existing in bohemian land as some dope wastrel slouch?
Where else do I turn when life deals out misery?