The waiting

The Waiting

I ought to write a novel, if I only could come up
With a beginning that doesn’t sound like Reader’s
Digest. “It was a blustery October day when…”

Once upon a time I wrote verses, laid my soul bare
Ready to be trampled on; I wrestled with my
Conscience and tried no to cry.

On the poetry carpet that shines so bright, most of
The sheen is crows silver, narcissism and cynical
Manipulation of peoples’ emotion

Poetry is a childish occupation, an endless game,
Diligent poets are like a dog with a ball that never
Tires of the same old game

I ought to write a novel which is longer than
Eighteen meager lines, something romantic or sexy
I just need an opening line.

There is no such thing as a writer’s block, only
Writers with little to say and that is ok, silence
And reflections never did hurt anyone