I write and I write, but nothing seems to make any sense…

Does anything I say seem to make any sense?

Am I making any good points from poems I have written hence?

I write of not straddling any fence,

But herein I believe I am writing just to avoid being tense…

My poems seem to be quite stupid and dumb,

I cannot seem to write without using the thumb,

I use it to examine the world without,

Without what I have no idea, insane I am or just about…

Prolific I am, only after I think my muse has taken a powder,

I do write without capitals so you do not think I am saying things louder,

Maybe if I were to eat better my poetry would show it,

Maybe if I were to eat more fish and clam chowder…?

I am sorry to those that say I am apologizing,

I can’t help it, I sometimes read what I got and know I am weird,

For what I used to write, I felt quite revered,

My earlier words did make one think,

Since though they seem to have disappeared…

Am I only now a humorist?

Writing for only the consumerist,

Or do I write for myself, or those I like to make laugh?

Or am I writing for myself and on my own behalf…?

Rambling on and herein ranting,

I hope when you do read this you will for me be granting,

That sometimes I do write of the fantasy in my head so enchanting,

My brain I do feel they should be someday transplanting…

What in reality was this poem all about?

Was it the miscellaneous ravings of perverted lout?

Or did I of my writings herein tout?

I guess that my muse has returned,

I am no longer in a writer’s drought…

        © ed ~ 1/30/05