It’s strange, at times, becoming a poem.
First attempts are exuberant, teasing,
flashes of phrases spiral and spin, mind laughs,
weight lifts some, from life, from living,
from ending up ordinary. First attempts, naïve,
sacrifices to imagined denuded Muses.

It’s euphoric, at times, becoming a Poem.
First stabs of brilliant thought, searing,
flashes of peripheral words stretch and slide, mind gasps,
weight descends, time becomes concentrated,
blurring reality, conscious…expands, explodes,
seizes the phenomenon of creation.

It’s breath taking, at times, becoming Poem.
First read critical to hold Time, soaring,
flashes of epiphanies sally and salute, mind crafts,
weight deepens, layers supported by netted words
contain pithy core, unweaving the enigma
satisfies comprehension’s acuity.

It’s depleting, at times, being a poet.
First flush steadies, further seeing,
flashes of perspectives stagger and sap, mind cries,
weight blooms, questions of collapsing humanity
crush sensitivity, judgmental attrition
squeezes words into fragmented pain.

It’s depressing, at times, being a Poet.
First rejections by kind, disbelieving,
flashes of hopelessness slap and strike, mind dies,
weight collapses, doubt breeds disgust,
spirit agonizes, interrogating realizations
seek to reestablish creative id.

It’s difficult, at times, being Poet.
First confession avalanches, revealing,
flashes of weakness satiate and sink, mind lies,
weight settles, weathered by exposure,
weariness creeps, draining life of self,
sacrosanctity turned inside out.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 10/13/03