Posted in WHACK POETRY

OF NIGHTS I CAN’T WRITE

confessions-of-a-poker-writer-decent-days-and-nights

 

How foolish I was,
to think I could write and satisfy the hearts of men like a  maiden to a master,
How naive I was,
to imagine I could twist alphabets with crisp efficiency and quench the souls of mortals,
How stupid could I get,
to lift fingers bony and expose naked mind in the literal auditorium and brace self for a duel,
How eager I was,
to see them applaud and nod in satisfaction like does a director in an erotica.

 

Yet here I am,
crawled out of my reclusiveness, languidly boring good men with words of no essence,
Mothers know the secret wishes of men, writers are men,
But a bird whispered, “The complexities of the social realm, cannot be caressed, in the same nature as dominant fantasies,”
Yet here I am,
a fraud,  willing the souls of men, like the ceaseless roar of wind in a hungry storm,
Please prevent the harpoon that wants to roil my emotions, even for a second of transient love, for my works of art.

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Author:

A wannabe techie and literature enthusiast.

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