It’s 2am and I awaken.
Thoughts break in
And I begin:
I write the books.
Charming, informative.
They do not sell.
Carefully worked on and out until they gel,
Spontaneous but ne’er pell-mell,
Tight, concise, the format small;
Life’s storms,
Its call to arms,
A bawling at our time’s alarms,
Wailing ‘gainst life’s wailing wall,
Admiring the beauty of it all…
What e’er it is I have to tell:
They do not sell.
So what the hell!
But what is hell?
The poet’s railing wall?
Perhaps the tiresome need to sell.
The Books I Write & Thoughts At Night 7.12.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Our Times, Our Culture II;
Arlene Corwin