Relationship with poetry

Though I have staked my love in well-put words,

in rhythmic meter, verse, and form, and tact;

I know no action of scansion is stirred--

no counting of lines or syllables exact--

when in the moment, good poems are heard.

And though this form of music I adore,

beside a many other forms of song,

I know of nothing worse I could abhor

than the love that loves not back,

often seeming wrong.

 

Tis then, when work seems more like work than joy,

and ease is lesser the feeling than pain,

that this b***h called poetry does annoy

the wit whose words are written most in vain.

(When pacing in his stench and squalid space,

and words that once had rhyme have now but none;

when never can the poet find his place,

then that is when his poems die undone.)

 

But what of the days of glorious fun,

when writing’s as much a chore as a cheer?

when contentment befriends the words he’s spun,

and better than himself, he does appear?

What then? What bliss! What more could he demand?

How then could he remand his pen, and claim

he’d never had the power in his hand?

The poem’s a vixen the poet tamed!

 

Because he staked his love in well-put words

--his hate in those that never seemed to fit--

the love that loved not back is swiftly purged,

and his labor bore some tendership.

 

And though this tiny moment cries

forever to last that long,

tis only until a moment dies,

and the poet starts a brand new song.