My son wrote this poem. He told me that I could send it to one of those blogs that ask their readers for various types of participation. However, this being Mother’s Day, I don’t think he can kill me for putting it out where people are (almost) aware of who he is. He’s 18 and in his first year of college. I like it and hope you do too.
For meter and rhyme,
I haven’t the time,
and my mind is a stagnant pool.
For this is my curse:
I cannot write verse;
can you think of a fate more cruel?
I have not the muse,
my mind does refuse,
to pour forth my soul, though I try.
I’m not a poet.
God knows I know it;
I wish I could break down and cry.
But still must I write,
most every night,
In hopes that I might one day make,
a poem or lyric,
perhaps a panegyric
that sounds neither trite, bad, nor fake.