THE SACRIFICE OF THE POET

“The poet judges not as a judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.” - Walt Whitman

It is my right to sit and write,
as a poet it is my duty, just so.

Silly, you know?
To try and write on a subject...
The second you start it becomes flawed.

I try and turn my poetic grips to something worth caring about
but the topic is a mist by the time I touch the fingers to the keys.
I would love to write about history, the human condition
perhaps a few lines on the evolution of caves & tents.

Is it the idea that stops these urges?
An internal resistance easily overcome by determination?
No. I cannot believe it so. [insert some weird metaphor]

I would like to sit and write an American poem.
An homage to the culture that could very well be dying,
failing to keep up with the heartbeat of technology,
but I am here, lost again, at the mercy of my forcing.

How can one break from resistance, or faulty reasoning?
By writing about it of course.
This is my main goal it seems, because I have simply written.

I have never wanted to write this poem,
or anyone like it for that matter
it seems self indulgent and non-artistic.
Seems bare boned? Ragged,
lost in a completely aware mind of the words on the page.

Hard to write on transcendence, too.
I feel like a wet dog in the hand of Angels, I guess.
But, it is a topic that I cannot carry on without,
for if there is one thing worth reflecting
[using the ability to reflect upon things]
it is the importance of the spirit in a writer.
For without the muse, the calling, a belief
I might not have ever begun to write.

I speak easy to muses and hearts,
for it is in these that my poetic chops flourish.
They are able to articulate the inabilities, _________.

That is why they are special.
That is where the American poet lays,
through the history of my ideas,
and the feeling they have led me to feel.
Towards the analysis of the human experience,
my contribution to it, and the likeliness you might read it.

Here and forever after a poet is left with one poem less to write.
It is easy to find that feeling here at the end,
just as easy as it was to sit and start to write,

[the intention of avoiding an orphan line]
with no intention, a loss of dignity, and the sacrifice of the poet.