I write a poem in thirty minutes, and publish it, to get over my fear of publishing
I do not dream of labour, but I do dream of words.
I dream of them soaring through the skies as birds,
Set a-flight with their talons clutching forewords
To drop on an unsuspecting subject’s turned head.
I dream of accolades and praises and love -
Ones I know I must be unworthy of-
Sweeping through the sky as doves
Soft coos to ease my spreading dread.
…
What if I cannot, actually, write?
What if my words are brittle and trite?
If my ideas never actually achieve this legendary flight?
The flock overhead
Turns to murder instead;
What if their talons are spread
And it’s my flesh they shred
At their rage at being unsaid?
Am I to lie there, bleeding, near dead,
To stitch up the wounds with consolation and thread,
And return to the world from hence I had fled?
This poem was written in 22 minutes and 29 seconds.
I started with the concept of “work” — recently my father retired, and my brother made…
