Okay… so it should have been day 21. I’ve got a lot going on right now, so it’s not feasible to write every day. I figure I’ll settle for writing thirty poems in thirty days just not necessarily one a day.

 

A Writers’ Sin

These words these words and more words still,

how sick of words I feel.

They are but weak and empty things,

mere shadows of the real.

I write and write and write more still,

give thanks to those who read.

Give thanks for those who understand,

and my poor ego feed.

I do not write to save the whales,

nor homelessness to end.

But only for the sounds words make,

no greater good my friend.

So all these words and still more words,

are nothing more than pride.

My voices searching for the light,

escape the void inside.

I pour my soul, pour my poor soul,

into these words I write.

And see it there upon the page,

so small and vain and trite.

 

Cheers, Winston