Pointless poet that I am
by Linda Collins
Wandering lost amid the high walls of literature
I write my tragedy upon my soul
And edit with a quick slice to the throat
Until the words splatter upon the floor.
Fat, red words that cool and congeal about my feet.
The words will spill
Until I am over
Then how fast those lofty walls will crumble
Leaving me to wonder why I suffered all these long years
When it was oh, so easy to be read?