on the eve of my last poem

[constantine]

i can't do this anymore
like cigarettes
light, smoke, discard
and on to the next,
aborted fetuses
half-baked and doughy
better to read a book
listen to a symphony
go to a museum
the works that matter
that took effort and blood
that say something worth saying
one can piss one's life away
and never say anything at all
i shall beat my pen into a backscratcher
or an awl to punch holes in leather
something practical
something with purpose
instead of refining doodles
and signing my name on the bottom

[emel.scott]

Welp, they say real poets write because they have no choice. So a good test would be to see if you can stop. Strap yourself to the mast and see if you're willing to chew through the restraints to get another fix from the pen. If it doesn't happen you can always become some mortal being like a critic or an editor, I hear it pays better.

[saw]

I feel the frustration in this, and I think probably every artist ( writers incl.) has felt this urge to abandon their art....some even have either been tempted, or have actually carried out destroying everything they have thus far created as those feelings mount.
I love the layers of art, the depth of contribution as defined by things like time invested in one piece, or the simplicity and merit of art, which like poetry, says more with less
Motivation is the bear we wrestle with......and he's bigger and meaner than us

have always enjoyed your work, dino........look forward to you pinning the bear to the mat.....( scatter guns work as well )

[joel]

And no more love from me at last— I’m done—
the fast, if final, molecule of water
fallen lightly over someone else’s
crag. I’ve clasped my last eroding clutch
and now I hope to grasp as much a newer
riverbed, a – yes – more level stream.
The waterfall I was was wonderfull
but too directionless— nonsensical—
and I’d perhaps be better not to dream
or dive within love’s cycled verses. Do
you sense how eager I’ve become, how rutschy
in my skin, how quickened in my pulse?
I can’t keep up with love and I’ve forgotten
how to start to be some other one.

[constantine]

thanks for such intelligent and well-thought out responses. i've no intention to stop writing. a poem is a poem - sometimes confessional - sometimes not. i just throw them out there; and though sometimes i get frustrated, i really wouldn't want it any other way. it's what i do - it's who i am and who i've been since childhood (that's why i'm so damn good!!!)

[dadio]

good theme. captured well and delivered.