Write The Poem Only You Can Write.

I See Woefully Obscure Poetry As Simply A Kind Of Verbal Rudeness.

I Stared Up At The Ebbing Quarter Moon And The Stars Scattered Like A Handful Of Salt Across The Faraway Sky.

All They Want To Do Is Tie The Poem To A Chair With A Rope And Torture A Confession Out Of It. They Begin Beating It With A Hose To Find Out What It Really Means.

A Sentence Starts Out Like A Lone Traveler Heading Into A Blizzard At Midnight, Tilting Into The Wind, One Arm Shielding His Face, The Tails Of His Thin Coat Flapping Behind Him.

The Name Of The Author Is The First To Go Followed Obediently By The Title, The Plot, The Heartbreaking Conclusion, The Entire Novel Which Suddenly Becomes One You Have Never Read, Never Even Heard Of, As If, One By One, The Memories You Used To Harbor Decided To Retire To The Southern Hemisphere Of The Brain, To A Little Fishing Village Where There Are No Phones.