Death Of A Poet Poem by James Casey

Death Of A Poet

He sits in this room, pen and paper at hand,
Afraid that his poems are nothing but bland.
Emotions unbridled but no ink will flow;
He's so much to say that no one will know.

He can't find his voice, his feelings, his words.
Where is that harmony written in thirds?
He's anxious to write a poem that will please
There's others who seem to write with such ease.

' What is a poem? ' he asks in the dark.
Inspiration eludes him; he waits for the spark
That bursts into flame and whirls from his mind.
Instead he just sits, his thoughts undefined.

Soon all his scribbles begin to make sense,
His sentences still in an imperfect sequence
But maybe his scrawl will turn into verse
Artful enough to break this damn curse.

With structure and cadence, and rhyme? ,
Just maybe the critics will like it this time.
He sends it out on the computer before
His courage fails and he deletes it once more.

Next morning he awakes and pulls up the site
Certainly he'll read of the critics delight.
But to his dismay they hated each phrase
His work had received not one word of praise.

Forlorn and depressed he knew what to do
So he wrote them a note to bid them adieu
Swallowed his pride with a bottle of red
Pulled out a pistol and shot himself dead!

Jim 1995