The Bluffs:

Half my poems are still sitting on a shelf
Waiting for a publisher to come and write a check
Waiting for magazine to come and pat my back
Half my soul still screaming through the ink
Smeared lines and blood stains
Mangling with the wrinkles in the paper
Twice thrown away
Twice smoothed across the table
Twice I'd given up
Lost the rhyme, the flow, the high
Like surfing perfect breaks at sunset
Was convinced I'd quit
give up on the dream
The word those words were gone had left
Weren't ever coming back
Till they did like swells along the pier
Smashing into wood
Crashing into shore
Drifting back and forth
Till they fizzled white along with low-tide
Sea spray and rip-currents
Pulling you away until your just but
Bright surf boards bobbing to the bluffs


  1. That's lovely. You have served the poet's heart on a deadly platter. Keep writing.


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