I’ve wasted much time
body and spirit,
on drugs of a kind:
those of a poet.

The rhymes in the mind,
the beats to the brain,
sometimes explosive!
but oft times inane.

Always compulsive,
this poet’s own bane;
always addictive,
it drives me insane.

A magic in numbers,
in word counts, to blame;
this be the spirit,
a poet in vain.


I published a poem,
which nobody read;
it fell from my pen,
dead, as was said;

by Hume, whom nothing
in common we’ve had,
but just this one thing
in thus do we share:

His books fall down dead,
my head has no hair.

If this makes you think,
to question, compare,
revenge is then sweet,
Dear Reader, so there!

©2016, Marvin Welborn
13 April 2016

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