I Am No Poet; No Heart, No Heaving Breast

Word Can Rattle On By, If An Idea Can Be Seen In Of Itself

I’m hardly a refined beast,

Hard-smithing words; all I am

Is a conjurer of Ideas, what

Others conceive in me, in my

Words, cannot be what it is

For myself, all I am is Ideas -

Just a notion, a funny little

Thing: Consideration, that fancy

Term to simply change your mind

About something one has persuaded

Themselves on their entire lives;

Someone conveyed to me

That Poetry is only the Best Words

In the Right Order — I suppose

That is what I yatter on about;

Yet I am no Poet — I care not for words,

Only for Ideas that represent;

Burst a further wrinkle and grieving heart,

I wonder what do I care?;

In this endless tugging

Of words hiding up ideas — bounding on

In a sea of shameless misapprehensions

I can do no more than at least try;

I dare that notion on — With little complaint, it seems,

Though most aren’t listening, what ado!

In all their pretty words, sounding naught;

In these oscillating worlds, so desperate

To be invariably right about themselves,

I remain hungry and swiftly ready to depart.

COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER

©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

The Curation; Write For Our Publication:

I PAINT TO SAVE A SKY — A POEM:

I HEAR NAMES; I LOSE THE NAMES — A POEM TO TIME BEQUEATHED

I SPOKE LESS — [I HEARD MUCH MORE] — JOURNEYMAN’S POEMS:

As ever — we go, Dear Reader.