I'm not sure if a poem is ever finished. Yeah, first write is fast, incomplete, rewrites a necessity. And then your done . . . or so you think. You see types, lack of imagination in the word choices . . . you fix it . . . and then you see something else . . . a line that's clunky . . . more typos . . . fix all that and finally put it on the blog. And all the time knowing that you will probably rewrite it again. I don't know if my poetry is good or bad. Sometimes I just don't care. I just enjoy writing, and feel a strong compulsion to continue writing whether or not it's worthwhile to do so.
Buggy
Bites
I close
my eyes the dark appears.
I open my
mouth I hear
the
flutter of raindrops against
the
window's pain.
My shadow
laughs, a silent laugh,
the laugh
of those elderly ghosts
that
still haunt me whenever I
try to
dream or sleep.
I feel
them tramp, tramp, tramping
around
inside my head.
Once my nutshell
was filled
with
dreams, childhood,
a
mother's touch, her lips
upon the
forehead to test
for fever.
Her whisper in my ear,
"Don't
let the bedbugs bite."
She'd
turn off the light
as she existed
my bed room.
I always obeyed
her. I never once
let those
bedbugs bite me.
Woodie
o1-o8-19
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