Doubt
Nebulous potential poetry swirling hazily in my mind
broken mirror splinters of things I've seen, heard, believed
They surface more than once, taking over the verse,
and I irresistibly write of no more than what I know
Where do I draw the line between admirable poet's trademark
and stagnant over-used recycled rubbish?
Un-doubt
One of many minds filled with poetry-stuff, I am
seeing a fraction of the world,
living a moment of its time
writing an inch of its verse
So I write what I can
Any poetry I don't write
someone, sometime else, will.
Oct 29 2008
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