![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Jan. 15th, 2013 at 9:38 PM
Words are ineffective tools.
Rarely do they make meaning clear
We poets are the worst of the fools.
We let words control us, I fear.
Emotions defy expression by letter,
No matter lovely words those letters spell.
Art, I feel, does so much better.
A picture has more power to tell.
Yet we writers continue to scribble,
Driven by ego to waste paper and ink,
On volumes of incomprehensible dribble,
Whether or not our verses might stink.
Occasionally a friendly Muse inspires us,
Lends us syllables hers, not our own.
Then we spit out a phrase that fires us,
Until at last a poem is grown.
You may ask why we carry on,
If our verbal palette is so weak.
Why do we bleed until life is gone,
What is the goal we seek.
For me, it is to find justification,
To give my miserable life some worth,
To discover some reason for my creation,
To compensate my mother for the pain of my birth.
Perhaps if I fill enough pages
With words, no matter how odd,
I will be remembered down through the ages
For accidentally finding the true Name of God.
(Carl Johnson)
Comments
Thank you
Particularly like the last two stanzas!
Adding this one to my collection :-)