Over Doing It Poem by shimon weinroth

Sometimes the things I say
sound so tickey tackey,
too sweet and gooey, it's not me
it's the poverty of language
or perhaps a poet gone astray

in search of metaphor, bested by cliche
drowning in a solution of lexis
that oozed and leaked upon the page
staining and desecrating,
pure sentiments of tender rapport

the linen in the cupboard of my mind
needs some cleaning, to be starched
snd ironed, learn to keep a stiff upper lip
such a rush of emotions, groaning, moaning
kneeling and pleading are not becoming

some reticence is wanted too hedonistic
splash my feelings upon the page
I look into the mirror can not find an ascetic
stoic, nor a squeamish poet
I'll just go on writing, let it flow of what
I know at sunset, sunrise and horizon