William Baez


Carry On - Poem by William Baez

There is much to say about writing.
It's flow, it's words, it's jest.
I hate it with all my hate.
It's nonsense.
It's dissent and irreverence.
It's thinking upon what to say next.
It's gazing at an emotional sea.
From what drop can I pick? To flow the best that I may be entirely seen.
But seen in what? A metaphor, a play?
No, something that's even harder to say.
So I can be stared at, in the dreaded statue smile of a penitent hanging coldly from the noose.
So I can be gazed at, in the mirror-like tears of a father's illegitimate son freshly born from his whore.
And be lovingly looked upon, in the tomb of a rich man's grave where his young widow never visits, or lays down flowers.
Aw, but what is writing?
It's irreverence, it's a joke of words.
It's taking drinks in the midst of hell.
Sell what it must to get by.
While resting upon millions with a sigh.
Aw, writing.
At the end of the day, at life's day.
It's a curse that I wholeheartedly mistrust, but in which exercise I must.
Carry on.

Topic(s) of this poem: writing


Comments about Carry On by William Baez

  • Bernard F. AsuncionBernard F. Asuncion (6/16/2017 3:30:00 AM)

    Writing is an exercise of mind.... I rate it 10+++++
    You may visit my IF I WRITE A POEM.... Thanks...
    (Report)Reply

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, June 15, 2017



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