Litkicks Message Board Archive

The last poem?

Posted to Action Poetry




It hurts
to sit
restless in
a chair

my fingers feel like writing
my mind is ready for invention
but every one else
denies my passion

There is no gift...
nothing divine...
I like what I do
nothing more,
nothing less

getting old with my back against a wall
throwing needles in
an endless vault

The verdict is harsh,
even cruel
yet somewhere along the road
I knew this all the time

Nothing can be written,
so should I write no more?