Thoughts spring forth from every crevice
of my complicated mind
Some are jumbled fragments
While others well defined
Glimpses of past experiences or
aspirations yet to come
A mosaic of ideas
Filtering most, but sharing some
Thoughts sometimes so compelling
they wake me from my sleep
Carried fresh with me all morning
By evening obsolete
Why not carry pen and paper
everywhere I go?
Saving precious inspirations
like the poets that I know
What is the reason for stalling
this evident shortfall?
The answer very simple
I am not a poet at all
Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca
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2 comments:
I used to swear I was not a poet, but still my wordy habit had its way with my pen.
thank you for enjoying my poem, I would love to invite you to join my newsletter. winterose@videotron.ca
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